Hurricane Farnor
by Ruth Piwonka
Summary: Pure coincidence leads Mulder directly into chaos during his vacation. He coerces a reluctant Scully to join him investigate the spooky town of Wauchula, FL. While she's gone, she asks the Lone Gunmen for a favor. Humor in this is not for the squeamish
1. Chapter 1

"Hurricane Farnor"

Chapter One

Winn Dixie Store #701, Wauchula, FL

June 1st, 2001, 8:07 a.m.

Five years after he transferred from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Howard Myers finally understood how this quiet country town operated. Many people were either farmers or had some sort of interest in the agricultural business. Life was relatively slow and more simple here. Husbands and wives rarely quarreled publicly, and to do so was considered improper. There occasionally were scenes, but then he interceded for the other patrons and asked the couples to take their discussions outside the store.

His customers typically had huge families; vans and trucks filled his parking lot a-plenty today. And why shouldn't they? It was a Saturday after all. Howard greeted a few customers as they entered and started to do his morning inspection. Every department seemed to be blossoming except for one. Unfortunately, his produce section was suffering the most at this moment. People rarely bought from his store since the Farmer's Market was just across the street _and_ at least twenty cents cheaper than his prices. Even his own employees bought their fruit and vegetables across the street. So about once a month, since he needed the money, he'd sell the produce with a major discount to the employee of the month.

Although it was quite normal for the store to be at 68 degrees Fahrenheit, this morning, it felt cooler. In fact, it felt a little too cool for Howard's liking. Perhaps someone had been tampering with the temperature gauges on the A/C again. Last week, he caught a few of the stockers in his office with a key. They hadn't touched it then, thankfully, but this morning, they could have succeeded. Well, he'd take care of that right away. The trucks that visited Winn Dixie came every Tuesday and Saturday. He usually didn't pull the stockers away from their breaks once the trucks came, but today, they needed to be taught a lesson and the true meaning of a dollar.

Myers turned on his heel back to his office and on his way thanked some more customers for their business as they left the store. As he strolled inside and flipped on the lights, he studied the A/C gauge carefully. The digital numbers still read sixty-eight. "Brad?" he called to his head cashier, who was in the business office and counting up one of his underlings' drawers.

"Yes, Howard?"

"Does it seem more cold in here today than normal?"

"It's _always_ been freezing in here, Howard. Which award winning newscaster sold you the headline--Brokaw or Rather?"

"Doesn't it seem to be colder than usual? You haven't seen anyone come in here this morning, have you?"

"Nope. I came, but you know that if I ever touched that damn gauge that I'd be turning the damn air down and not up!" Myers agreed; Brad McKellen usually wore sweaters and the long sleeve tops during the day unless he had to come out of his space. As Howard exited his office, he stole a quick glance at McKellen. True to form, Brad was in a sweater. He journeyed to the front desk and was just about to go into the store when a teenage clerk interrupted him. "Mr. Myers? Everybody's complaining about the cold. Can you please turn down the air?"

"If I do that, the dairy and produce sections might overheat. Sorry, I can't do that," he shrugged.

"But it's getting colder! The guys working dairy say that the walk-in freezers are dropping way below their normal freezing temperature."

"Tell them to open them up and get some of that wonderful hot Florida heat."

"Won't the ice cream go bad?"

"Just call them up and have them do as I say, please," Myers spat and left the desk to go check the back of the store. As he passed the frozen food section, the doors flung themselves open with a powerful wind and threw him as well as several other customers into the center of the aisle. The wind soon turned into a gale, and the carts banged into one another as well as the people. "What the hell's going on?" he yelled and dodged some TV dinners as they too flew out of the freezers.

Soon, the patrons' cries on the frozen food aisle could be heard throughout the entire store. Some tried to help dig the injured out of the pile of food while others simply gawked at the awkward occurrence. The smart ones packed up their belongings and left hastily. Howard managed to force his way out of the gusty winds only to bear witness with the three hundred other consumers in his store that a magnificent black cloud took formulation right over his twenty foot drop ceiling. He ran down another aisle to the customer service desk and the teenage clerk he previously gave orders. "Don't just stand there like a stump, Andy, call the fire department!"

"Wouldn't an ambulance be better, Mr. Myers?"

"Boy, you'd better do as I say if you wanna keep your job for another five minutes!" Myers slammed his fist onto the counter and picked up a public announcement phone. "Attention, Winn Dixie shoppers, do not enter the frozen foods aisle. We've having some kind of malfunction in the..." his finger released the talk button as the cloud gave off an ominous clap of thunder. "My God..."

Suddenly, a harsh blizzard began to pour forth from the cloud. Unfortunately, not just snow was falling. Huge chunks of icy hail also fell upon the poor people. Some tried to take cover under their umbrellas while others tried to run for the exit. Another spectacle on the alcoholic beverage aisle made Howard's jaw drop nearly to the floor.

Customers who had been examining the bottles in hand could now not release them. The bottles froze straight to their palms, and those people were the luckier ones. Champagne corks spontaneously started to fizzle and pop; it wasn't long before they started to gouge consumers in the eye.

Myers himself in the midst of the chaos was attempting to open the automatic doors that had been frozen shut. He stamped on the mat several times, but it was no use. The doors would not budge.

"Somebody grab a fire extinguisher!" one of the patrons yelled.

"Wait, no! Don't ruin my doors, please! I just had the panes re-installed!" Myers pleaded.

"Get out of our way!" another shouted and shoved the store owner aside.

"Please! There's got to be another way out! Did anyone try the back loading dock?"

A beefy man in his late thirties with a jean vest and a red bandanna wrapped round his head strolled past Myers carrying a dry powder fire extinguisher. "This'll do the trick," he shouted and commenced his beating to the glass.

"I suppose today's as good as any other day to start a new business," Myers muttered and lightly smacked his forehead with his palm.

"This is the fire department. We've brought a battering ram. Stand clear of the doors," the chief announced from outside with a bullhorn.

The biker immediately dropped his weapon and dropped back with the rest of the crowd. Six brave firemen approached the frozen doors with the bronze pole. "Could I make a request, please?" Myers ran up to the first pair and screamed through the cracked opening.

"What is it?" one of the men huffed through his mask. "Make it snappy, this damn thing is heavy!"

"Could you please aim for the metal instead of the glass?"

"Get out of the way, idiot, or else you'll be feeling a giant five hundred pound rod poking you through your stomach in five seconds," the fireman barked.

The biker jerked Myers backward by the belt of his pants just as the fire brigade's first strike hit the automatic door's glass. They pounded the battering ram through the door three more times, and on the fourth, they successfully smashed their way inside.

The Winn Dixie parking lot filled in one minute with the entire store's population as the storm continued to wreak havoc inside. Howard Myers was one of the last to leave, and as he watched his store become demolished by the demonic weather, the fire chief approached him. "Howard, I'm awfully sorry about this."

"And just _what_ is going on with my store?" he remonstrated and thrust both hands up to the heavens.

"Well, from what I can figure," the chief scratched the back of his head, "is uh...well...I hate to say this...probably from the Devil."

"Are you crazy?" Myers turned his head to give the chief an incredulous glare but instead, his expression became dubious. "What the..."

A man dressed in nothing but rags pushing a filled cart away from the store quietly made his way throughout the parking lot's chaos. "Hey!" both the fire chief and Myers yelled.

The stranger stopped dead in his tracks, made eye contact with them, let go of the cart, and took off. "Stop, thief!" the chief continued and gave chase. Howard followed but then stopped at the abandoned cart. Moments later, the chief came back breathless and empty handed. "I coulda used your...help...back...back there," he panted and held onto the cart for support.

"Sorry—I couldn't help but notice the contents."

The chief composed himself and peered inside the shopping cart. It was filled to the brim with ice cream and milk—practically three months' supply. "I don't get it. What's this mean?" he asked Myers, who shrugged.

"Dunno. Maybe we'd better take this to the church and get Father O'Leary to exorcise the dairy demons," he rolled his eyes.

The humor was wasted upon the chief; he shook his head 'no', and waived his finger around. "Nope. I'd check the meat department if I was you, Howard."

Super Gas Qwik Mart, Ocala, FL

June 1st, 2001, 12:02 p.m.

Mulder proudly pulled his Mustang convertible up to the pump and noticed that this station was 'full serve'. "Hmm...old fashioned service. Wonder where ole' Bobby Lee is?" he muttered to himself and honked the horn. A few moments later, a young man that looked no older than twenty in a boiler suit with stains smeared all over himself strolled up to the ex FBI agent.

"What kin I fill ya up with, mister?" he inquired and opened up the tank.

"Just the regular 87 octane, please."

"Gotcha. Need me to check under your hood for any problems?"

"Actually, this is a brand new rental, but thanks just the same."

"Oh, so you're a tourist, then, huh? You here on business or pleasure?" The attendant loaded the pump into the tank and leaned against the side of the car as he filled it. He pronounced the word 'tourist' like 'turist', which made Mulder wince. That meant that he couldn't be passing through the most educated town right now. He hoped and prayed that this guy would be his only chance meeting.

"Sure," Mulder replied inattentively and kept the radio going with a slight turn of the ignition.

"And now we turn to the news. This report is brought to you by Pep Boy's Auto Discount Parts, where you'll never have to turn anywhere else for an uplifting discounted price. A flash flood has completely washed out the I-75 south bridge near the city of Brandon. Local authorities are somewhat puzzled as to how this disaster happened; a record high draught of four months without a drop of rain throughout the state has been recorded. The back roads and country routes are your only means of travel in between there and southern Florida, folks. Strict watering regulations for Lake, Putnam, and Marion counties are in effect as of yesterday, May 31st. Our next story concerns the poor townsfolk of Wauchula. Seems that a local Winn Dixie store was hit by what was reported to be an indoor winter storm. Did I read that right? Hmm...yes, I guess...I did. Thankfully, there were no deaths, but forty people were injured by runaway carts, wine corks, and hail the size of golf balls. This has got to be the strangest story I've had to read over the air, Louella. Are you sure that this isn't some part of a script for a drama?" Mulder shut the stereo off and opened the car's glove compartment. He removed a map and got out of the car.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you're gonna have to get back in. State law says that only one person can fill up the tank, and you're lookin' at him," the man declared and let go of the pump's trigger.

Mulder bit his lip and wished that Scully were next to him in the passenger seat. Without her, he had no federal authority whatsoever. He did keep his personal firearm stashed under the driver's seat with a spare clip in the glove compartment, but a snaggle toothed red-neck gas station clerk was no excuse to use it—the notion to do so was becoming very tempting, though. He obeyed and leaned over his door. "Excuse me, can you tell me where Wauchula is from here?"

"Just hold off a second, mister, I'll be right with you." The clerk retrieved the pump, closed the gas tank, and eyed the meter. "That'll be $16.05, mister."

When a coal black hand neared Mulder's head, he was about ready to scream. This was the first and last time he would ever use 'full service' ever again. Mulder withdrew his wallet and deposited a twenty into the attendant's hand. "Now about Wauchula...-"

"You be needin' some change, sir?"

Mulder sighed and stared very longingly at his Walther's hiding spot. Swallowing an impatient growl, he glared at the man's petroliferous forearms and shook his head. "Just keep it—where's Wauchula?" he asked for the third and hopefully final time.

"You seem awfully pushy for just bein' a vacationin' tourist, mister." The clerk slipped the currency into his back pocket and wiped his greasy hands off with a rag. "But we like tourists in Florida, so I'll help you out. Now, what's this all 'bout Wauchula? Don't you want to be headin' t'wards Orlando?"

"I was actually on my way to Sarasota."

"Oh, well...looks like you're up shit creek without a paddle, then. Unless you _want_ to take the back roads."

"I realize that, thank you," Mulder responded sardonically and flipped the map to face the annoying clerk. "Would you mind helping me find the quickest route to Wauchula?"

"What brings you to go over there? Sarasota's nowhere near that neck of the woods."

"I just remembered my aunt Betty Lou lives there; I'd like to pay her a visit."

_One more nosy comment, and so help me god, the gun's coming out._ _Maybe it's a good thing Scully's not here._

"Well, you're in Marion county now, in the city of Ocala. Wauchula's in Hardee county, and that's probably about another hundred twenty miles southwest. Yep, here it is." His finger traced a path and rotated the map around towards Mulder. "Just take route 27 south, and then make your way to the town on route 17 westward from there. Think you can handle that, mister?"

"How do I get to route 27 from here?"

"Just take a left outta the station to that traffic light. Then make a right down Jefferson. The sign for 27's turn is about half a mile down that road. Wish I could remember which way the turn-offs go, but if you got a nose for direction, you'll be able to figure it out." He pointed as he spoke. "Besides, they're marked pretty well—we like our tourists in Florida to find everything very easily, no matter how rude they are," the clerk mumbled the last phrase under his breath, but Mulder heard it.

He tore the map away from the man, started the engine, and floored the gas on the way out of the station. "Asshole!" the attendant yelled and flipped Mulder off.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The X-Files' Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

June 1st, 2001, 2:32 p.m.

"John, did you know that this office got burned down nearly four years ago?" Reyes asked Doggett, who sat at his bureau writing on a legal pad.

"I think I remember hearing about that, yeah," he answered her and glanced up from his notes.

She stood up from her chair, walked behind his desk, and tapped on a section of the wall. As suspected, a piece of drywall from a weak spot immediately cracked and fell onto the floor. "Looks like they re-painted, all right, but the spackle job looks awful. I wouldn't be surprised if you tried to hammer three nails into the wall and it fell down on you. Do you think if we mentioned it to SAC Capricci that it actually might get done?"

"That'd be nice. He _did_ get on the custodians for not emptying our garbage once a week. He must've scared the living shit outta 'em; now they do it twice a day," Doggett remarked and handed the legal pad to Reyes. "Here. Can you read that?"

"Of course I can, John. I've got six year old nieces and nephews with the same kind of calligraphy."

He chuffed at her jibe and tapped her sleeve. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse my...odd sense of humor. I'm sure these will be just fine for the report," she enthused and sat behind Scully's desk. "Where is Dana, by the way?"

"Collecting the mail from the bullhorn pigeonhole. She still insists upon doing it every day to let people know that we're alive and ticking down here."

"Excuse me, sir," a Latino American woman knocked on the door, shuffled forward, and searched the room with her eyes.

"Maria, is it?"

"Si, Senor."

"It's all right...the can isn't quite half full yet. See?" Doggett signaled her attention to the waste basket sitting near the bookshelf. "Thanks, though."

On her way out, she nearly collided with Scully. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Senorita."

"Don't worry about it." The cleaning lady skittishly waddled away down the hall to the elevator. Scully gave Doggett a questioning look, glanced at the janitor momentarily, and lifted an eyebrow towards him. "Didn't she just-"

"Empty our garbage before we left for lunch? Yeah. Makes me wonder what on earth SAC Capricci did to those poor janitors." He motioned with his head to the few pieces of mail in her hand. "Anything exciting?"

"Well, here's something for you, Agent Reyes. And my medical journals came in, along with a lovely subscription renewal." Scully delivered the letter to her desk and sat down in front of Doggett's. _Every time I turn around, someone's always asking me for more money_, she thought.

"Monica, do you want me to type up the report? You look kinda engrossed there," Doggett observed and arose from his seat.

Reyes' nose was practically immersed in the three paged letter, and it wasn't until Doggett actually snapped his fingers in front of her face that she paid any attention to the outside world. "Psst...Monica."

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. This um...this is a letter from my real estate agent. He finally managed to get my house sold!" She continued to skim the letter and beamed widely after she finished. "I sign the papers tomorrow."

"Did you get a good listing?" Scully inquired from behind her copy of JAMA and casually turned a page.

"I didn't nearly get as much as I wanted for it, but it was only about two thousand less than my original asking price. I figure since I've been trying to sell that momma for nearly six months that I needed to get my head out of the clouds and shoot the deer in the woods."

Scully and Doggett exchanged surreptitious inquisitive expressions; nothing was said for about thirty seconds. Reyes lifted the legal pad from her ink blotter and hummed to herself as she typed mindlessly on the keyboard. Doggett broke the awkward quiet by clearing his throat. "So Agent Scully, I hate to shirk my summary and go, but, I kind of was hoping to get out of here early. Is that okay with you?"

"But isn't it due to Kersh by the end of the day?" Scully was still perusing the magazine but now crossed her legs.

"True, but now that SAC Capricci's taken over, I don't think he'd mind it if we waited until Monday."

"Taken over? He's not even an Assistant Director!" That led her to close the publication and give him her undivided attention. "And why wouldn't they call back Skinner?"

"Maybe he's on vacation, too," Doggett shrugged and shuffled over to his desk to collect his jacket from the chair. "I couldn't tell ya, Agent Scully...like you, I'm still strugglin' to understand how in the heck they run this place. I'll be flying up to Michigan for some fly fishing this weekend."

"Fishing? That doesn't sound like you at all, Doggett."

"I know," he agreed and re-inserted himself into the suit jacket. "I haven't gone since Luke...um..."

Reyes stopped typing for a moment and gave him a quick smile with a nod of understanding. "John, you should go. Find that old piece of mind, and maybe it'll bring back some great memories."

Although Scully wasn't quite privy to all of Doggett's personal history, she sensed that he needed some peace and quiet. He never did mention what had happened to his son—only that he had disappeared. She empathized with the feeling; she experienced it less than two months ago when her own son had been abducted. "Take Monday off, too, Agent Doggett," she urged him.

"Thank you, ma'am," he gave her a grateful acknowledgment and exited the office.

"Where is Kersh anyway?" Scully wondered.

"Rumor is that he's on an Alaskan cruise, but no one knows for sure. He didn't even tell his secretary. How weird is that?" Reyes went back to the keyboard.

"Well, for the FBI, I'd say totally normal."

"How's that?"

"Vacation isn't a vacation if your work place knows where you are and has your cell number," Scully grumbled and remembered a certain time four years ago when she tried to flee to Maine alone. Not only was she coerced into a queer Stephen King flavored case, she had suffered through many obnoxious calls from a very jaded Mulder. All she had wanted to do was relax, but no one seemed to understand that very well.

"From that expression on your face, Dana, I'd say that you've been a victim of that very circumstance. When was the last time you took a vacation?"

"That's difficult to say. I tried once in Maine, but I just ended up having to help the locals out there. And then last year, I was planning on one for Mulder and me to go to Galveston, Texas, but then...well...he-"

"Was unexpectedly interrupted," Reyes finished for her and nodded with comprehension.

"Uh, right."

"Well, I should be done with this as soon as I've completed the spell check. Were we supposed to present this case to him in person or just hand it to his assistant?"

"I...honestly don't know, but-"

Suddenly, the phone beside Reyes alarmed the both of them. She gingerly picked it up out of its cradle like it was a fragile vase and answered with a firm 'Agent Reyes'. "Yes. Oh, hello, Tony. Isn't that odd, we were just discussing you? No, that would be your imagination running away with the dish and the spoon again, sir. I know. No, I'm not offended; you're a man."

Scully rolled her eyes and buried herself back into the magazine.

"Say listen, did Deputy Director Kersh leave you with any responsibilities? He did, huh? An oral summary and presentation? Well, I'm finishing it up at the moment, actually. However, my real estate agent just closed a deal on my house down in New Orleans, Tony. I understand that, sir. No, Agent Doggett left for a fishing trip earlier. Yes, Agent Scully's here. Do you want to speak with her?"

The red-headed FBI agent's head immediately retracted itself from the JAMA as she gave Reyes a withering death stare. It was the type of glare that usually gave Mulder what he described as "the ebblie jebblies", but this seemed to have no sort of effect whatsoever upon Reyes. In fact, she even extended her hand with the phone towards Scully as she repeatedly mouthed the word 'no'. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Scully accepted the receiver and tossed her medical publication onto the desk. _Either Agent Reyes' body language translator is broken, or she's got the willfulness of a two year old boy. I used to be able to melt Mulder into a puddle of nothingness; there's got to be a way to break her._

"Hello, this is Scully," she replied into the phone.

"Well hello there, Scully, I hear that you're going to be giving me the review," Capricci announced. Scully supposed that to many other women, his voice was as soft and as silky as a puppy's ears. It actually rubbed her the opposite way; it sounded more like nails being run down a blackboard.

"Yes, it seems that way."

"You sound upset." She pursed her lips and restrained herself from making any unlady-like or unprofessional off-color remarks towards him. Instead, she leaned against Reyes' bureau and checked her watch.

"What time will our appointment be?" Scully changed the subject. Male confrontations were not her forte, especially if she had to deal with a superior.

"Does 4:30 sound appropriate, Scully?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tony," he whispered and disconnected his end of the call.

She doubled checked her watch. It was about three fifteen now, and she hadn't heard a word from Mulder. He'd been gone since last night. Well, he did leave her a voice mail message this morning, but it wasn't quite the same as a live conversation. And now that their relationship had gone to the next step, a part of her longed for it. Another part asked herself _why_ she didn't accept his invitation to take a leisurely road trip to Florida.

"How do you spell conscientious?" Reyes asked and broke Scully away from her inner reflections.

"Um...c-o-n-s-c-" Scully hesitated as she thought and closed her eyes, "i-e-n-t-ious."

"Thanks. Three minutes left; time me."

Scully was still in another world, and it wasn't until about four o'clock that Reyes actually had to physically shake her into reality. "Dana, what's with you? You're usually the most down to earth person in this office," Reyes commented.

"Oh, I uh...I don't know. I think I was having a cloud nine episode." _That hasn't happened to me since I was in high school._

"Well, the report's on the desk in front of you," Reyes pointed with her head and fitted her arms into her suit jacket. "I finished it about half an hour ago, but I decided not to disturb you with that information. Like you said, you were deep in thought. Do you think you were meditating?"

"I don't..." Scully started to shake her head but then stopped, "no. I don't think it's possible for me to do that."

"Well, you did appear to be in a trance-like state, and unless the typing of the keyboard functions as a sort of hypnotic suggestion to you, that's just what I assumed," Monica shrugged and took a glimpse at a clock on the wall just above the door. Scully's eyes followed hers and then hardened.

"Oh brother," she mumbled as she remembered her dreadful task at half past. "You're on your way out, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am, but I can stay for just a minute to talk...if that's what you want," Reyes trailed off.

"You've probably got a flight to catch."

"Not until nine tonight."

_And I'm going alone to report to Mr. Casanova?!_

"No, you go on ahead."

"Why are you so bothered about speaking to Tony?"

"Monica, you know what kind of a man he is."

"True, but he said he's learned his lesson. Besides, you're not proposing to him, you're just giving him our case report," Reyes told her.

Scully retrieved the summary and arose. "Will you be back on Monday?"

"I should be." She gave Scully a fleeting touch on the shoulder. "Hey. You'll be fine, Dana."

"Have a good trip." Scully turned the lock in the door as they entered the basement hallway. As they parted directions, Reyes headed for the parking garage and Scully stopped at the elevator.

"I just thought of something great about working in the basement, Dana."

"Seclusion for your own meditation?"

Reyes chuckled. "Nope. I don't have to use any stairs to get to my car."

The journey upstairs suddenly seemed to last longer than the usual three minutes as Scully quietly traveled to Deputy Director Kersh's office. The door to his atrium was wide open, Kersh's secretary was missing, and an attractive brunette with shoulder length hair dashed outside. She appeared to be flustered and stopped to primp her complexion while glancing at herself in the reflection of a picture on a wall.

Scully pretended to take no notice of the woman's actions whatsoever, but they were self explanatory; a quick and casual encounter had just occurred. The incriminating evidence was overwhelming; she hoped that Capricci would not ask her to sit at the table where the incident most likely took place. A part of her wanted to break down Kersh's oak door and begin an immediately painful castration, however, she was obliged to be polite towards him. He was, after all, still a senior ranking agent.

She counted to ten, inhaled deeply, and knocked on the door. "It's open," Capricci's rich baritone voice called from the inside.

Capricci's attire was totally contrary to the widely adopted 'casual Fridays'; his dapper ensemble included a pinstripe black suit along with a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes. Not one single piece of clothing was missing; he even still wore his suit coat. Scully had to admit that that impressed her; even Skinner didn't wear a suit coat in his own office. He was even standing to meet her, for Pete's sake! But as she strolled into the office and towards him to hand over the file folder, he reached for her by her necklace. "Would you mind shutting the door, please, Scully?"

Before she had a moment to chastise him, he let go and gave her a roguish smile. "Don't want anyone to interrupt us, do we?"

"Of course not, _sir_," she emphasized, pivoted on her heel, and did as she was asked. As she returned, he did not sit behind his desk. Instead, he shuffled in front of it and leaned against the bureau. This extremely informal behavior caught her off guard and made her feel very wary.

"Agent," he said and offered the chair not three feet in front of himself.

"I'll stand, thank you, sir."

"It's Tony, Agent Scully. I would think that those lovely designer heels of yours might be a tad uncomfortable at this time of the day." Capricci again motioned to the client seat, and she visibly swallowed a gigantic lump the size of a baseball down her throat before shaking her head adamantly.

"They're quite commodious, thank you," she replied tersely, though inwardly, her heels' nerve endings were at their wits' end and screamed for relief.

"As you like." A brief and awkward silence hung in the air; it broke as he stripped himself of his sports jacket and draped it over the chair he'd offered Scully. "Hope you don't mind...I've had it on since seven thirty this morning."

_Liar_. _Your shirt would be drenched in complete sweat since the a/c's been on hiatus all over the building this past week._

"Would you rather I read the report to you or just summarize the highlights, sir?"

Scully wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. There was a jasmine blossom solution just calling to her to be utilized in a bath tonight. But the downside of the situation was that there would be no Mulder to share it with. Since their relationship had ripened, there was a whole new side of him that she'd never seen before. She'd secretly suspected that he was hiding most of his knowledge whilst feigning it for the sake of his masculine ego, but now she didn't care. In fact, she yearned for him tonight.

"I'll let you pick which option suits you better only if you stop calling me sir, for Christ's sake." He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

"Very well then, s...er...uh...Capricci." She walked over to the adjacent chair, sat down, and crossed her legs. She next opened the X-File and handed him a stack of photographs. "These pictures are of the Hogan family plantation just five miles south of Charleston, South Carolina. Neighbors were complaining of odd sounds, livestock maiming and/or abduction, and destruction to their property. The well educated townsfolk believed that they were being haunted by the spirits of the Hogan family plantation."

"Ah...nothing like an old fashioned ghost story," Capricci hummed and studied the pictures with an intensity long lost to the X-Files Division.

"Uh...the legend of the Hogan family was that after the Civil War, they tried to keep their slaves. And so the slaves took their revenge by killing every single member of the Hogan family. They even claimed the property as being theirs and that the former white proprietors up and left it to them; the authorities could never find any evidence to the contrary. As you know, fingerprinting was not seriously integrated into forensic science until the late 1890's. Neither was photography or even autopsies. And those could not even be performed by the morticians since the bodies were never accounted for."

Capricci tossed the photos onto the seat next to her. "So...they figured that the ghosts were the ones causing all the trouble, huh?"

"You assume correctly, s...uh...Agent Capricci. But it was a hoax."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, the strange noises _were_ actually from the Hogan estate, but upon discovery, Agent Reyes and I discovered that the abandoned place was inhabited by raccoons. And it was springtime, sir...I don't think I need to expound as to their...ahem...activities..."

He chortled and loosened his tie. "No, you don't. And what about the stolen and/or mutilated livestock?"

"Various teenagers' pranks. The aforementioned cattle were not really mutilated; they were unfortunately victims to I think the term is identified as 'cow tipping'. The destruction to property I attribute to storm damage. We saw nothing unnatural about that town; everything can be logically accounted and attested for."

"Hmm...so no one ever found these people's bodies, huh?"

"Not to my knowledge, nor to any one of the townsfolk Agents Doggett, Reyes, or I spoke. This was essentially and open and shut case of paranormal fraud."

Scully closed the file and placed it upon Kersh's bureau. She arose, retrieved the pictures, and mixed them into the report. "Well, how do you think they did it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Scully inquired and made direct eye contact with him.

"How do you think those former slaves hid the bodies?"

"Well, I postulate that they probably didn't bury them."

"Sorry, Agent, I don't follow."

"Have you ever seen _Fried Green Tomatoes_?"

"I think so, years ago, yeah."

"The secret's in the sauce." As he paused to ponder the thought, Scully headed for the door. Her hand went for the knob, and then Capricci snapped his fingers.

"Of course," he laughed. "Hog parts weren't the only things in the boiling pot, I see. So are you suggesting that they ate the bones, too?"

Scully licked her upper lip and turned the knob.

"Is something bothering you, Scully?"

"No." She now faced the door, but before she could open it, she suddenly felt his presence beside her.

"You know, for having the reputation as being the 'Ice Queen' around here, I sure know when I'm being given the 'cold shoulder', Scully. You wanna tell me what's up?"

"Sir, I don't feel comfortable being this close to you."

"There's more to it than that." He was searching her eyes now; she nearly felt naked in front of him.

"All right," she said, spun on the ball of her high heel, and traveled back to the bureau. "Please keep your distance, sir, I ask of you."

"Will you stop calling me that?! It's Tony!" His Italian heritage finally got the better of him for once as he threw up his hands. "You've been acting strange ever since I called you on the phone. What's going on?!"

She sighed and looked away. "What you do is your own business, Capricci, but tell me honestly, how many FBI women are you dating now?"

"What's that got to do with y—oh." Capricci stiffened, smiled, and then retreated to Kersh's executive chair. "None, as a matter of fact. You thought I was rattling a few cabinets with Debbie from the VCS, huh?"

"The overwhelming evidence might have leaned towards that conclusion, yes. She left your office rather quickly and smoothed over her disheveled appearance."

"Don't see any stains on my pants, do you?"

Scully crossed her arms and frowned. "You could've changed them."

"Not every guy brings two pairs of pants to the office, Scully...well, with the exception of the previous Commander-in-Chief. I'm afraid I've given you the wrong impression; sorry if it looks untoward." He arose and headed for the conference table. Capricci lifted the plateau's panels and leaned them against a wall. He motioned for her to come closer and removed the red leather covering to reveal a complete pool table. "She's quite good, actually...nearly beat me at nine ball. I bet that's why she ran out. I nearly made her late for a meeting with her section chief."

Scully's mouth could not have opened any wider. If her jaw had the capability, it probably would have hit the floor. Kersh had a pool table?! No wonder he rarely invited anyone besides Doggett upstairs for the case summaries and meetings. Here she thought it was because he was a chauvinist and trusted neither Reyes nor herself.

Capricci flipped a case open and screwed two ends of a cue stick together. "Do you play?"

_Do I play?_ Scully smirked and shook her head. It was the only sport besides shooting that she could actually best both younger and older brothers at. Every Navy brat learned to play; if you went into a bar and dared to even speak of being one, you'd better be able to back your old man up with a killer game or else. As she remembered the one time that she actually played in a bar, the game had gone from a serious money match to a strip contest. She flushed inwardly as she recollected the unexpected outcome to beating an incredibly well-built naval officer leaving the New Orleans bar in a huff _au naturel_.

"A bit," she finally replied upon realizing his gaze was fixed expectantly on her.

"Well then," he made a sweeping gesture at the table and offered the stick to her, but Scully waived her hand. "Is something wrong?"

"It's late, Capricci. Is everything in order?"

"Oh, for the report, uh," he cleared his throat and rested upon the cue stick, "sure, why not?"

She simply nodded and gave him a quaint smile as she turned around to head for the door. This time, she meant to pass through it without any more hindrances.

"What's the matter? You lose your nerve for a good match?" Capricci pressed. "Hey, Scully, sorry to bother you again, but I gotta know something."

"And that would be?" She dared not to turn around.

"Since Mulder's out of the Bureau, does that make you fair game?"

Scully bit back a bout of laughter with the back of her hand. She had been wondering how long it was going to be until he finally laid down his cards. "You'll never learn, will you?"

"What do you mean? I just told you I wasn't dating anybody else."

"Just because Mulder quit doesn't mean he didn't score elsewhere." Scully gave him a slight eyebrow lift and exited the office. _Nicely done, Starbuck. There's nothing like a dame._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

MTM Bed & Breakfast, Wauchula, FL

June 1st, 2001, 4:06 p.m.

When Mulder arrived fifteen minutes ago at the bed and breakfast, he thought he'd pulled into the Bates' motel. A normal upscale resort like this would likely be in a two or three storey house. Instead, the rooms were spread out ranch-style, and as he got a closer gander, they weren't exactly rooms. They looked like pioneer log cabins. And the thought of having breakfast delivered by a scaled model of Paul Bunyan to the door in the morning ruffled his feathers even more. Perhaps it was for his own good that Scully turned his road trip down.

He rang the bell on the reception desk for the fourth time and finally, a surly and beefy man with a wide brimmed hat entered from behind a coat of animal fur. The beard engulfed practically the man's entire face save his nose and a pair of beady brown eyes that peered at Mulder through his bottle-thick glasses. "You lost, mister?"

"Uh, no. I did happen to see the sign out there," Mulder pointed outside, "and thought I'd stay here."

"For just the night, huh? You probably got a little too much to drink, I reckon, and you need somewhere to hole up. Well, that's just fine, mister."

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon...a little early for me, actually. And I might stay more than one night."

"Why?" the man sized him up.

"I like nice little towns. Everybody knows everybody, you can leave your doors unlocked, and the whole place shuts down at nine o'clock every night. That means peace and quiet."

"Hmmph. We've been having everything _but_ that," the manager mumbled and spun a book on a pedestal around for Mulder to sign.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. As a matter of fact, it's kind of why I stopped on by."

"You don't say," he leaned over the counter, "Mr. Mulder. What does a man of your persuasion do for a living?"

Mulder could have sworn that he saw the man's hand shoot under the desk, but he could have been wrong. His eyes did play tricks on him occasionally. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and was unfortunately met with the barrel of a buckshot ten gauge shotgun. "Hey! I was just going for my credit card," he complained and raised his hands in surrender.

"Answer my question, Mr. Mulder."

"I really don't like being interrogated by lunatics with loaded shotguns. I already gave up that career. Can't we just discuss this like normal, civilized people?"

"And I really don't like strangers that just happen to come into town as a whole truckload of trouble's going on. Now you'd better answer me fast, 'less you prefer to speak to Jenny." The manager lifted the gun slightly and cocked the hammer.

"What do your other tenants have to say about your business practice of 'shoot first and ask questions later' tactic?"

"I ain't shot you yet. But my finger's startin' to get pretty itchy..."

"Well, now that you mention it, I used to be an FBI agent."

"That's better."

"Can you put the gun down yet?"

"Her name's Jenny. And what're you doin' in Wauchula?"

Mulder sighed. Maybe it was best if he just turned around and left. Florida's east coast wasn't quite as nice as the west, but there still was a beach and a tan waiting for him. As well as about half a million college kids there on summer break. "I think I'm gonna shove off, now, uh...I can see that you're a busy man and-"

The shotgun barrel butted him squarely in the ribcage causing Mulder to grunt and double over onto the counter. "I think I get Jenny's point," he grimaced.

"Good, now cooperate, Mr. Mulder."

"All right," Mulder rasped and clutched his ribs as he rose. "I heard the news story on my car radio about the coincidence of strange weather going on at your local Winn Dixie. And I use to head a department at the FBI that dealt with that kind of a thing, so I figured I might be able to shed some light on the matter."

"I don't recall hearing about a weather department at the FBI."

"The paranormal, actually." When the manager's eyebrows furrowed, Mulder signaled upwards. "In other words, snow and hail storms are not a common happenstance around here, are they, sir?"

"Never is more like the term, Mr. Mulder." He finally lowered the weapon and rested it behind himself against a wall. "I'm sorry. It's just that a lot of weird stuff's been going on in the last few hours...flash floods...snowstorms...flying shopping carts."

"And you thought that I was the cause of it all?"

"Nah, it's just that...well, it's hard to know whom you can trust these days."

"I understand your cause for concern, but that's no reason for you to be waiving your shotgun at a paying customer." Mulder lifted up his VISA card and slid it across the counter to the man's eager fingertips.

"It's in my best interest to protect this town as a deputy, Mr. Mulder." He opened up the register and flashed the ex-FBI agent his own badge. "Name's Forrest Gump, but you can call me Forrest."

"No kidding," Mulder chuckled as he watched Gump run his plastic through a pounding plate. "That's your real name?"

"Sounds more legitimate than..." Gump gave the credit card back, stared at the form, and snickered, "Fox. You get raised by 'Dances With Wolves' or somethin'?"

"Not exactly. And I'd prefer to be called Mulder, please."

"If you'll just follow me, I'll take you to your quarters." Gump stepped out from the bureau with Mulder traveling at his heels. "You got any bags, Mr. Mulder?"

"None that I can't handle, thanks. I'm sure I could find the cabin by myself..."

"All right then. Just know that they're not numbered." As they journeyed outside, Mulder stopped at his car, and opened the trunk to retrieve his luggage. The deputy picked up one of his duffel bags before Mulder could say another word and heaved it onto his shoulder.

"What do you mean, they're not numbered?" Mulder nearly stuttered.

"They're colored by flags. See, this one is aqua, and the one on your left is cyan. Oh, while I'm thinking 'bout it, here's your key." Gump dug into his left breast pocket and gave it to the bewildered former agent.

"Might I ask...why..."

"I dunno. Guess the owners didn't want to make this place look like a crummy typical tourist motel trap. I never bothered to ask," he shrugged and waited for Mulder to close the trunk. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Um...so I guess I'll be staying in the aqua one?"

"Nope, that's closed for cleaning."

"Then, uh...the cyan one?"

"Nope, that one's got a plumbing leak. Just found that out last week, too. Your key tag's the color of the cabin," Gump pointed to Mulder's palm.

Mulder cleared his throat nervously, nodded, and stuffed the key into a jacket pocket. "Right." He shut the trunk and picked up the other bag from the gravel driveway. "If the plumbing's been acting up since the previous week, why haven't you had it fixed?"

"You're looking at Mr. Maintenance as well as Mr. Deputy and Mr. Hotel Manager. I'd have the missus fix it if she was still alive."

"Could you have a look at mine?" Mulder blurted.

Gump bit his lip inquisitively as he studied him and finally agreed. "Well, all right. I suppose I've got the time now, but I was due at the station ten minutes ago."

"I'd appreciate that, thanks."

Thirty yards later, they arrived at a cabin with a barn red flag. Gump let Mulder in with his master key and proceeded to the bathroom for a quick inspection. "So lemme ask you this, Mr. Mulder, how long did you work for the FBI?"

"Nearly sixteen years." Mulder tossed his bag onto one of two full-sized beds.

"Did you ever run into somebody dead 'cause of a cold?" The toilet flushed after his question.

"A cold? As in the virus that gives runny, leaky, stuffy noses, and sore throats?"

"That's the one. And you forgot coughing."

"Um, no, not that I recall." He left the bedroom and joined the deputy, who was gazing keenly upon the water level in the toilet bowl.

"Well, we got one of those here. I figure he got into one of those coughing fits and couldn't stop," Gump clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "But we ain't too sure."

"Don't you have a coroner or medical examiner that could make the diagnosis?"

"Oh, sure, but he can't get to us, on account that he was on vacation in Clearwater."

"How about a doctor?"

"Hmm, well, that's who found him. Doc says he'd only been to the man's house to give him some cough syrup and decongestants yesterday. Gave him a perfect bill of health otherwise."

"Really? That's interesting. Your doctor still makes home visits?"

"Mmhmm, that's right. He saves our coroner a trip, too."

"What do you mean, that he's-"

"The town mortician, too. Yep," Gump nodded sadly. "Van Winkle's delivered life time and time again. Unfortunately, he's not been too good at saving it...recently, I mean."

"What do you mean, until recently?"

"Doc Van Winkle _is _in his late seventies. He should've retired two years ago after he fell and broke his hip, but I guess he needs the money," Gump shrugged.

"So no one's done an autopsy yet, correct?"

"That's right. Why, do you do 'em?"

"No, but I know of someone who could...provided I make it worth her while."

"Looks like your plumbing's okay. I gotta be takin' off now, unless you need somethin' else." He shot out of the bathroom and headed for the open front door.

"Just one more thing."

"Yep?"

"What does MTM mean?"

"Humph, I thought everybody knew whose initials those were. And they call us Southern folks 'uneducated'," he mumbled his last comment. "Mary Tyler Moore," Gump announced clearly and pointed to a picture above the beds.

"Is she the town mascot or something?"

"Nope, she owns a piece of this here hotel. Mebbe it was _her_ idea for those colored flags 'stead of numbers."

"Well, I always did wonder if she would best Martha Stewart in a quilting contest. Sheriff, would it be all right with you if-"

"Deputy."

"Sorry. Deputy, would you mind it terribly if I came with you to the station? I might be able to shed some light on what happened if I saw some of the evidence and possibly heard some testimonies."

"Well, I don't know. My boss don't like the Feds too much..."

"I'm an ex-fed, remember?"

"It ain't up to me to decide who can help and who can't at the moment, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder nodded dolefully and started to unzip his duffel bag. The deputy pushed the brim of his hat up and studied his conversant for a moment. "The least I can do is get you to the mortuary so you can talk to Dr. Van Winkle and get his opinion on what you should tell your friend."

"Thank you. I'm sure she'd appreciate that."

Fifteen minutes later...

After hearing the doorbell play the first four measures of Beethoven's 5th, Mulder immediately cringed. He wouldn't be surprised if Van Winkle answered the door robed in a holocaust cloak and armed with a scythe. Thankfully, he'd been able to sway Deputy Gump into accompanying him.

"Who is it?" a scratchy voice inquired.

"Deputy Gump, and I brought over a tourist who calls himself an investigator of the paralegal."

"That's...paranormal," Mulder thinly smiled.

"Can he operate?" Van Winkle asked. He had now arisen and made his way toward the door with a cane.

Gump glanced at Mulder, who shook his head. "No, but I'm sure he's got a steady hand. And he looks like a fairly strong young man."

"Good. I could use the help." The thumping and dragging across the wooden floor stopped as the mortician/doctor arrived at the threshold. The knob turned, and there stood the oldest man in history to still be in the field of medicine. Van Winkle's hair was as white as snow and just about every inch of skin upon his face sagged like a lump of mashed potatoes. He was covered from chest to knees with a bloody apron, and he looked like he was going to fall over any second if that cane gave out.

"Are you Dr. Van Winkle? My name's Mulder, and I believe Deputy Gump said that you had a very interesting cause of death recently." Mulder held out a hand in greeting, and to his surprise, Van Winkle grabbed it, pumping it up and down furiously.

"You a reporter?"

"No, sir. I...was a paranormal investigator once, and I heard about what's been going on in this town, so I thought that maybe I could help."

"There ain't no such thing as ghosts," Van Winkle huffed.

"I didn't say there were, Doctor. The paranormal involves a lot more than just the spirit world."

"So you think you can figure out what's been going on by just lookin' at the body?"

"Well, sir, no, it's not quite that simple. But I think that it'd be a good start. May we come in?" Mulder questioned him.

"Why certainly; I apologize, that was rude of me. Please do." Van Winkle shut the door behind them and led his followers down a set of cement stairs to the basement.

"So is this your OR?" Mulder pressed as Van Winkle traveled about turning on instruments of light.

"I guess you could say that, but I haven't been doing much operating lately. So the table also doubles for embalming." Van Winkle limped over to a walk-in freezer and signaled for Mulder to come inside.

"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Muler, was it?"

"Mulder."

"Mr. Mulder. Hmm...where was I...?"

"Your curiosity," Mulder replied as Van Winkle removed the sheet from one corpse's head.

"That's right. What sort of experience do you have in the...spirit world?"

"I have some knowledge. Why's that? Did you experience anything after you discovered the body?"

"Deputy Gump," the cop's walkie talkie interrupted them, "are you there, Deputy Gump?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," Gump returned and shrugged apologetically. "Over."

"We've got a 10-14 in progress, over, at the Sunshine Qwik Mart."

"Again? That's the third time this month! All right, Betsy, I'll be there in a jiffy, over." He tipped his hat to the both of them and left in a flurry.

"Is this town used to this much crime?" Mulder asked Van Winkle.

"It's increased with the speed of sound since I been practicing here. I blame the media, myself."

"Um, well, back to my original question, Doctor. Was there anything odd in the area surrounding this man's body, like an energetic aura?"

"Hell, no! What's an aura?" Van Winkle demanded.

"It's a field of energy, sometimes visible, sometimes not, pending on the user, that can protect or repel energy from it. Did you feel or see anything abnormal upon approaching the victim?"

"Well, I don't exactly recall feelin' any vibrations or flashy lights, no. But when I touched his neck for a pulse, I immediately had to withdraw my hand."

"Why's that?"

"His skin was freezing cold. And as you can see, that color in 'im ain't 'cause of the freezing chamber." Mulder tilted his head and peered at the corpse with more interest.

"Tell me more, Doctor."

"I put on my gloves and tried various other ways to revive him, but he was dead by the time I tried to take his pulse the second time."

"Have you photographed the body?"

"No sir, that's usually done by the county coroner."

"I hear he's been delayed. Have you got a camera with a flash?"

"Oh, lemme see here," Van Winkle scratched the back of his head. "I just might upstairs in a closet. It probably ain't been used in more'n thirty years, though."

"That's fine. As long as it still works."

"That's a matter of opinion, young Mr. Muldrake."

"Mulder."

"Sorry. Well, suppose'n I go and fetch it? Then what?"

"We take pictures for my partner to examine. Those undoubtedly, will whet her appetite and inquisitive nature."

"If you say so," he mumbled and started his long journey back up the steps.

Just after Van Winkle reached the top, Mulder's cell phone scared him. When he looked at the caller ID window, he grinned maniacally. "Speak of the Devil, and she will ring," he answered.

"Why can't you answer the phone like a normal person?" Scully sighed.

"Define normality, Scully, and I'll present you with a set of Encyclopedia Britannicas for your next birthday."

"For your information, I already own a set of those. Now, have you made it to your tropical paradise yet?"

"If you're speaking of Florida, yes, I'm here. But I'm not exactly in Sarasota." The slight pause on the line gave Mulder the distinct impression that she was holding her breath or rubbing her forehead. Perhaps she was doing a combination of those actions.

"Dare I ask where you are? Or why aren't you in Sarasota?"

"It's funny you should mention that..." he snapped his fingers gleefully.

"Stop and ask for directions, Mulder."

"I got 'lost' on purpose, for once, Scully. I'm in a little hamlet by the name of Wauchula, and the poor folks of this town are being supernaturally terrorized."

"I'm afraid to ask, but how so?"

"If you don't ask, you'll never know. First of all, the townsfolk of the local Winn Dixie here suffered from the effects of an ice and hail storm. And secondly, I just discovered a victim who expired from a cold."

"Forgive me, Mulder, I think my phone's signal is breaking up. I'm in the FBI parking garage at the moment." A car door slammed a few seconds later, and she started the engine. "Now, did you say something about someone dying from being old?"

"No, Scully, I said that he died because of a cold."

"You don't say."

"Don't tell me you don't believe me," he spun around as he heard Dr. Van Winkle's cane bang against the stairs' railing.

"No, I believe you all right. What I can't believe is that you gave up a perfectly good vacation for a case that you can't officially investigate."

"Maybe it's because I was kind of hoping that you'd-...that camera _does_ look ancient, Doc. Do you think the film will be any good?"

Van Winkle hobbled down the steps and set a 35mm Eastman/Kodak camera onto the autopsy table. "I just put in a brand new roll, Mr. Moldy."

"Mulder."

"Sorry. You want me to start takin' them pitchers or not?"

"Please do, Doc. Sorry, Scully." He swung his phone to the other ear. "What I'm asking is...if you'd mind...that is-"

"If you're about to ask what I _think_ you're about to ask, you might just kindly remember that we have a son to take care of...and that my mother's out of town visiting Bill and Tara."

"What about that neighbor of yours...the teenager...she seemed like a nice young lady. Her name was...Lucy, I think."

"Lucy."

The repetition of the name coming from Scully did not transmit a good connotation to Mulder's ears. "Hey, Mr. Mudcake, I need to turn him. Can you hep me out?" Van Winkle called.

"I'll be right there," Mulder answered. "What's wrong with her?"

"Arrested for shoplifting last week."

"Oh...hold on a minute." He put the phone down onto a cart and rotated the corpse onto its side. "Is this good enough?" he inquired with a grunt.

"I guess. Won't know 'till the pitchers turn out," Van Winkle replied and moved the cover sheet.

"How long will that take?"

"The usual; three to four days."

"Three to four days?! Don't you guys have one hour processing?"

"What's the hurry?"

"I'm in rush hour traffic, Mulder," Scully's miffed tone returned from the phone.

"All right, sorry. Uh..." he retrieved the phone and scratched his scalp. "How about the Gunmen?"

"Can't you call them yourself to get them involved?"

"I don't want them down here, Scully," Mulder hopped away from the photo Van Winkle was taking. "Why can't they watch over William?"

A brief lapse of time passed longer than Mulder cared to admit. _Well, she could have just dropped the phone by accident._

"Scully? Are you still there?"

"I am. And I'm very grateful that you mentioned that while I was at a red light; I could have caused an accident otherwise."

"What's wrong with the guys? They're adults."

"Only by age, Mulder, and nothing else."

"C'mon, Scully, give 'em a little credit."

"I do, Mulder, when it's concerned with a case. Babysitting falls completely out of their realms of possibility."

"Didn't you think the same thing with me?"

"Well...what's their coroner got to say?"

"He's been delayed. Come on, Scully, you're the only one who can make a proper diagnosis. The only member of the medical profession that's presently in this town looks like he's going to expire within the hour..." Mulder scrutinized the old man as he broke into a coughing fit. "Perhaps sooner."

"I hate Florida," Scully groaned. "After what happened to us the last time we were there...-"

"Scully, my room has a chair."

"A chair."

_Aha. We've come to a ceasefire,_he thought. "Well, it also has a bed, but I thought that you might prefer using the chair." He paused for a few moments of silence. "Didn't you comment that it was easier in the chair last time?"

"We weren't working the last time."

"Yes, but, you'll be the one working this time, and I'm the stress relief. As head of the X-Files Division, surely you must know that from time to time, you're entitled to a little recreation."

"Where's the nearest airport?"

"I'd suggest Orlando rather than Tampa, or else you'll be caught in the same situation the Hardee county medical examiner is in. What about Will?"

"I'll handle it, don't you worry. I'll call you to let you know when my flight's come in." Before he could get in another word, she disconnected the call.

"Would you like me to help you get the freezer door closed so we can preserve the victim?" Mulder questioned Van Winkle, who had just recovered the victim.

"His name's Opie Taylor, and yes, please, Mr. Mulger."

"That's Mul-der, Doc." The ex-FBI agent jerked the freezer door open after Van Winkle removed the catch.

"So you called your friend?" Van Winkle inquired and let the door close.

"Yes, she's on her way, and she probably won't be in the best of spirits when she gets here. In light of that, I think I'm going to pay a visit to the sheriff. Is there a way that we could get those photos processed any faster?"

"Hmm...well...I helped deliver the Homers' new boy last week. The fella there works at the _Wauchula Bulletin_. Mebbe I could work somethin' out."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Scully's Apartment, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

June 1st, 2001, 6:55 p.m.

The rapping on her door to the rhythm of _Green Acres _made her wince as she just finished feeding William from a jar. "I'll be right back," she whispered and kissed him on the forehead. As she arose, _Green Acres_ again played upon the door. "So help me, God," she gritted her teeth and let the Lone Gunmen in.

"Is Mulder all right?" Byers immediately grabbed hold of her. The other two traveled straight to her kitchen table and pulled out laptops from their cases, respectively.

"Ethernet connection," Langly mumbled. Frohike whipped out a network cable and joined the two computers.

"Check," the older man grunted.

"DSL or cable here?"

"DSL. God, man, when was the last time you were here to do research?" Frohike removed a cable crimper next from his laptop case.

"When was the last time you heard from him?" Byers made direct eye contact with Scully, who was speechless from the flurry of activity.

"Uh...well-" she began.

"Are we up and running yet?" Byers shot over to Langly, who shrugged.

"I'm set, but apparently, Mr. Always Be Prepared forgot to bring enough CAT-5 for himself."

"Knock it off, Fabio," Frohike sneered.

"Enough," Scully thundered and shook herself out of Byers' arms. "Mulder's fine. I'm fine."

"What about the kid, is he okay?" Frohike inquired.

"Actually, he's why I need your help."

"Do you need us to locate majorly discounted baby clothes? Toys? Food? Analyze a sample of his DNA to find out if he's been tagged by the Consortium?" Langly offered, to which Scully frowned.

"No."

Frohike rushed over to her network hub, plugged in the end of his newly fabricated cable, and handed the other end to Langly. He connected his end to Frohike's laptop. "Internet connection complete," Frohike announced.

"Will you guys just stop and listen?!" All three men's heads snapped towards Scully. "Now, I need you to...help me out here." She motioned her head to the child, who just managed to catapult the spoon of carrots from the jar of baby food. The orange liquid made a perfect hit in between Langly's eyeglasses, and the spoon smacked him squarely in the forehead.

"Sorry, Langly," she winced and handed him a washcloth.

"What do you mean, Agent Scully?" Byers asked.

"I've stocked the fridge with plenty of food. He goes to sleep at about nine and wakes up at six. After breakfast...-" she started.

"Wait a minute, fellas, I think I'm catchin' on," Frohike interrupted her and stroked his chin. "You're going out of town for a couple of days on an assignment, aren't you?"

"Yes. I wouldn't normally ask this of you guys, you know, but, my mom's out of town and so is Agent Reyes."

"Wasn't Mulder going down to Florida or something?" Langly inquired.

"Yeah, and it looks like he's stumbled across something for me to look into. And believe me, it'd take a very strange amount of circumstances to remove me from my son for a few days," Scully exhaled loudly and headed into her bedroom.

"Does Mulder know about this?" Byers wondered.

"Yes, he asked me to come down," she replied, opened a closet, and retrieved her overnight bag from the floor. "I _am_ awfully sorry about this. I would take William with me except that-"

"Please, Agent Scully," Frohike cut her off and held up his hand. "There's no need to explain. We'll watch over him like a hawk does its prey." While the other two gave him befuddled expressions, he followed Scully into her bedroom and kissed her hand. "You have my word."

"Thank you, Frohike...I think," she cleared her throat and lifted the bag. "If there's anything you need to know, don't hesitate at all to call me. But I must ask you _not_ to call Mulder."

"Why's that?" Byers wondered.

Scully was just about to reply when Langly cut her off. "'Cause she knows that he'd never let us hear the end of the _Three Men and a Baby_ joke. And she doesn't want to damage our manly pride, dumb ass. Isn't that right, Agent Scully?"

Her face expressed discomfiture as her eyes traveled to directly meet his. Then they sailed back to make contact with the other two Gunmen's. "What he said," she finally remarked with a nod and scooted out the door without another moment to lose.

"Frohike, what exactly do you know about childcare?" Byers crossed his arms.

"Aw, it can't be _that_ hard," the elder man said with a swatting gesture.

"I was an only child. I don't know how to do diaper changing."

"Don't look at me. My only sex education in high school was when they handed out condoms and said don't break," Langly shrugged.

"Well, let's not worry about that yet until the time comes. Then we can call Agent Reyes," Byers decided. "We just have to feed him and put him to bed until then."

"Didn't Scully say that Reyes was out of town?" Langly inquired.

"That doesn't mean that she didn't take her phone with her. Besides, we need a member of the gentler sex's help," Frohike traveled over to William and wiped his messy face off with a washcloth.

"Well, what if we can't reach her?"

"Langly, you've recently become involved with a member of the fairer gender. What about her?" Byers interjected.

"I don't think she'd be the type to want to...take care of babies," Langly declared and took off his glasses.

"And we've yet to meet her, too," Frohike accused. He went over to the sink and began to rinse out the washcloth. "I bet you're just making her up," he scoffed.

"Why would I do that?!" the blonde man yelled back.

"She's not the first one to be fabricated. Need I ask what became of the one you claimed was specifically built for Mulder?" Byers demanded.

"Yeah, that composite and modeling bootleg never actually _did_ make it onto my computer, now that I think of it," Frohike jeered. "If she's so real, then why haven't we been introduced?"

"What are you, my mom and dad? So what if you haven't met?!"

"You know, Langly, man, I used to have make believe friends, too," Frohike sighed and patted him on the shoulder. "Although they usually didn't have a bust size of 36."

"I'm dating a woman in the FBI, in the Cyber Division, if you must know," Langly barked and shoved Frohike away from himself.

"Then what's the invisible woman's name?" Byers shot back.

"Sabrina Wazir," he finally mumbled and crumpled up his nose. "Ugh. Do you guys smell that?"

"Smell what, I don't-" Frohike began and journeyed back towards the baby.

"That's definitely a scent I would classify as toxic waste, Frohike. I vote that you change the first one," Byers crossed his arms.

"Me? Why should I have-"

"Because you got us mixed up with this in the first place. Didn't I say that that interactive video conference with Ivan Collins was way more worth our time than Scully? At least it'd push our shares up with FPS," Langly grumbled.

"You can still hook the video up, you know. I did bring the camera." Frohike lifted William out of his high chair and carried him by his midsection to the bathroom. "All right, I'll do it just this once, but I'm warning you, Mark Paul Gosselaar, it's your turn next time," he called from the hallway.

Hardee County Sheriff's Office, Wauchula, FL

June 1st, 2001, 7:20 p.m.

Mulder glanced at his watch for the tenth time. Since when did hold-ups take three hours to wrap up? Wauchula couldn't have been that big of a town to chase a robber for more than fifteen minutes. Unless he'd been running around in circles. Mulder had already read and memorized the entire bulletin board two hours ago. The only thing that actually was related to law enforcement was 'Wauchula's Most Wanted' list. All other items were rummage sales, lost valuables and pets, and one shady but faded advertisement for the hamlet's single strip club. If Scully didn't get here soon, the plausible temptation to visit would very likely turn into reality.

He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench and tried to cross his legs. It was no good; drinking all that watered down mud that Dr. Van Winkle assured him was Folger's was a bad idea. His bladder now was now shrieking for relief. Mulder groaned, got up, and hurried outside in the back of the police station. Just as he unzipped, a squad car pulled up behind him.

"Hey now, what in samhell do you think you're doin', boy?" a light tenor voice with a slight accent questioned. After Mulder heard the car door slam, he hoped and prayed that he could hold his composure long enough not to explode.

"Uh, just using the facilities, sir," he responded meekly.

"Uh-huh, sure you were."

"Well, I didn't see a gentleman's room inside, so I...-"

"The outhouse ain't ten yards in front of ya. Somethin' wrong with your legs, slick?"

"No sir," Mulder answered. His back was still turned to the officer.

"Well, then get movin'," the man shot back and took a step closer.

"I'm kind of...in an awkward situation here," Mulder paused. "I'm kind of trapped."

"Trapped? That's the best one I've heard yet, mister. Now shove off."

"Am I correct in assuming that I'm speaking with Sheriff Jed Clampett?"

"Suppose'n you are?"

"It's very difficult to move in this set of circumstances, Sheriff. May I finish, please?" Mulder was sweating profusely now, and it wasn't just due to the outside humidity.

"You'd better," Clampett's tone took an ominous turn.

Two minutes later, after Mulder regained his composure, he found Clampett munching on the end of an unlit cigar and leaning against the trunk of his squad car. "My name's Mulder, Sheriff Clampett. Did Deputy Gump tell you about me?" he offered his hand, to which Clampett merely nodded.

"He said you're some ex-fed that's into the paranoid."

"Paranormal, actually...you know...the strange and inexplicable?"

"Didn't know my tax dollars were workin' so hard," Clampett grunted. He chomped so hard on the end of his cigar that a portion of it came off; he spat it out in the opposite direction. Now that Mulder thought about it, Clampett was a pleasant man to look at. His features would probably make any Southern belle melt to butter; his eyes were as clear as the sky and his profile was nearly perfect. Well...almost...there was something to be said about that scar on his nose.

"Well, I was on my way to Sarasota originally, and I heard about what happened at your grocery store."

"Uh-huh, and?"

"I might possibly have an idea of what's going on here, if you'll permit me to observe."

"And just what does a fella of your fine Northern ed-u-cation hafta say?"

"Sheriff, do any of your townsfolk happen to practice in the arts?"

"Arts? The finest things that come from Wauchula are our oven mitts, mister. Why don't you come inside with me...those no see-ums are out in full season this time of the evenin'?" Clampett's flaxen hair shone in the last glorious moments of sunlight as he removed his hat and held the door open for Mulder.

"No, sir, I was referring to the magical arts," he continued.

Clampett pulled a chair out from behind a desk for himself and sat. Mulder joined him but leaned against a wooden banister that separated the public from the law.

"Gump told me you been to the mortuary, too. You think somebody put a spell on a man to give him a deathly cold?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking, it might not have been meant to kill the man specifically, but...-"

"And you also are guessin' somebody magically changed all our bullets to BB gun pellets, too?"

Mulder frowned as Clampett spun the cigar around on his lip and finally lit it.

"I was unaware of those circumstances, Sheriff." Mulder sneaked a hand into his pants pocket and revealed a packet of sunflower seeds.

"Yeah, it seems that during the robbery at the Sunshine Qwik Mart, every single weapon's ammo went berserk. We wouldn't have known 'cept the gunman pulled his out, tried to shoot one of the hostages tied to the gas pump, and the pellet bounced back to gouge him right back in the eye," Clampett explained. "So then Gump fired his gun almost at the same time at the varmint but only beaned him in the forehead. Dumb ass tried to shoot again at us, so when when I shot, he got nailed right in the holy spot. I never heard such carrying-on in my life. That bastard sang louder than a negro choir on a Sunday."

"Would you mind if I took a look at your weapon, please, Sheriff?" Mulder removed the seed from his mouth, discarded it to the floor, and reached towards Clampett. The officer's eyes had previously followed every one of his movements; they now narrowed to slits.

"I just cleaned and waxed the floor, Mr. Mulder."

"Oh really? So you're the janitor _and_ the sheriff?" Mulder's comment was spoken in complete naivete; however, Clampett instantly took offense. "Like Deputy Gump runs a hotel?"

"It ain't really none of my business to know all the ins and the outs of the FBI, Mr. Mulder, but where I come from, it's poor manners to spit on another man's floor."

"I didn't know it was good manners to spit at all."

"You're rattlin' the chain, Mr. Mulder." Clampett bent over underneath his bureau and placed a waste basket on top of it. He next removed his gun from his holster. Finally, the ex-fed realized his faux pas, crouched down, picked up the sunflower husk, and tossed it into the garbage.

"Sorry."

"Much obliged, sir." The sheriff carefully detached the revolver's bullet chamber from the barrel of the .38 and deposited it into Mulder's patient hands.

"Oh, a .38 special. There aren't too many of these around anymore," Mulder commented and peered into the weapon. "You fired three shots?"

"Well, only one. I must not have re-loaded from the time before." Clampett pulled out a drawer and examined a nearly full box of ammunition.

"These look like regular shells to me."

"Are you tryin' to make me look stupid?"

"Not at all, Sheriff. See for yourself." Mulder spun the gun around towards Clampett, who eyed it cautiously. "Did you happen to apprehend the suspect?"

"Gump's locked him up in back," Clampett jerked his thumb behind himself towards a closed door. "I still wanna know if these are real bullets or not."

"Judging from past experiences and research, I'd say that if you were to discharge your weapon here and now, they would in fact be live rounds. But if you went back to the convenience store, then there might be a possibility of another supernatural event."

"Like what? Lightning coming from outta nowhere and strikin' me dead?"

"I was referring to your earlier experience, sir."

"Might be? Why not be positively sure, Mr. Mulder?"

"The unexplained unfortunately does not present itself with boundaries, measurements, and regularity. It's not an exact science; sometimes I wish it could be so we could explain our expenses to the pencil pushers." He paused and tapped his lower lip for a few moments. "Did anyone happen to take photographs or film this event with sound?"

"Well, both Gump and I did have our patrol car cameras on. But once we turn 'em on, of course, we don't really pay much attention to getting proper angles and such..."

"Of course," Mulder agreed.

"I guess I don't see any harm in lettin' you see the tapes, since you was a fed n'all..." Clampett reached for the shoulder mic to his walkie talkie, "Gump?"

"Yes, Sheriff?" came back the reply.

"You done fingerprintin' the perpetrator yet? I need you to go dislodge the cameras from our cars and set 'em up for the FBI agent to watch."

"Ex-FBI," Mulder corrected him with a wince.

"10/4, sir, but I haven't logged the weapon into evidence or dusted it neither. I'd better do it before I forget."

"You let me worry about that, Deputy. You're better at electronics than I am, so you'd better set up those VCRs 'fore you get back to your motel."

"Copy."

"Why'd you ask if there was sound on the tapes, Mr. Mulder?"

"There was a legend of a sorcerer by the name of Vainamoinen who could control the weather and move objects with his magical harp or melodious voice."

"So you think if you hear a few bars of 'Dixie' in the background it might be him?"

"Not likely. I'd expect to hear something a little more contemporary...Michael Jackson, maybe," Mulder shrugged.

A few minutes later, Gump strolled into the office with a TV loaded onto a cart. He nodded his greetings to Mulder, who simply did the same in return. "By the way, Mr. Mulder, when you get back, you'd better move your car. You're parked in the crip space."

"Excuse me?" Mulder inquired. The South truly had a different dialect.

"Yeah, your rental's in the handicapped spot. I'd give ya a ticket, 'cept I gotta get back to the motel. Looks like you get off this time," Gump shrugged and turned his back on the ex-g-man to connect the RCA cables to the front of the TV.

"What'd you say?" Clampett shuffled out from the next room and shoved a filing cabinet shut. "Parked in the disabled space? Mr. Mulder, I'm gonna havta axe for your license." He took a few more steps towards Mulder and reached out his hand.

"She's all yours, Sheriff. If you need me, my radio's always on." After Gump exited, Mulder dug out his wallet to appease the adamant cop.

"Sorry about that. If you'd be so kind as to drop me off after we watch the video, I'll gladly move it." Mulder extended his hand towards Clampett, who squinted at the card, and then shook his head.

"I'm afraid you won't be going back to the motel anytime soon, sir."

"Why's that?"

"Your license's expired." The sheriff flipped the piece of plastic around to show his proof to Mulder. Mulder's jaw nearly plummeted to the cement floor.

"Well, couldn't I just pay the ticket?"

"Only if your license was good, slick. And since you're just a common civilian now, I unfortunately can't just let you off with a slap on the wrists, so to speak," Clampett

told him and tossed the wallet onto his desk.

"I guess I forgot to renew it this year. You'll have to forgive me, Sheriff Clampett, but it's kind of been a rough year for me...and-"

"Year? Mr. Mulder, this license was good until 1999! 'Fraid you can't use that excuse on me." He sighed and motioned to Mulder's pockets. "Empty 'em, slick."

Mulder complied despondently and suddenly remembered a terrible thought. Scully would be waiting for him in Orlando. He had agreed to pick her up since this was really a peculiar set of circumstances and not an official case. She'd traveled down to her least favorite place on earth on her own expenses, and if he didn't at least get to call her..."Could I make a phone call?" he suddenly blurted.

"All of the lawyers here are outta town or drunk at home, slick. You'd be wasting your time," Clampett rolled his eyes.

"I don't need one right now. I was supposed to pick someone up at the airport...-"

"He or she can get a rental. Tourist season's over."

"Even so, it'd probably be considerate to let her know that in advance," Mulder grumbled as he watched Clampett carve a piece of chalk into a graphite slate.

"Suit yourself, slick. But that makes this your one phone call." Clampett picked the cell phone up from his ink blotter and placed it into Mulder's impatient hands.

After leaving a very brief but apologetic voice mail to Scully, he set the phone back on Clampett's desk. In return, Clampett gave him the chalkboard. "The camera's in the next room, Mr. Mulder."

"Aren't you going to cuff me?"

"Seems kind of a silly idea when the cell's only ten feet away," the sheriff signaled Mulder's attention to the bars that were just over his left shoulder. "You won't be much trouble, anyway."

"So how much is the ransom?"

"What?" Clampett loaded the Poloroid with fresh paper.

"The bail."

"We'll have to take that issue up with the court clerk."

"And when will his office be open?"

"When I finish bookin' y'all." Mulder was about to open his mouth but then bit his tongue wisely. "Now, what were you talkin' 'bout before when you were sayin' there was magic involved?"

"Thought I have the right to remain silent."

With that, Clampett took the first picture and then spun his finger around to order Mulder to his side. "You do, but what you say now might help your case with the clerk a little bit. Some helpful facts might sway him into a bit of a discount on the bail."

"Is that so? How much?"

"Mmm...more than you'd think." He pressed the shutter button again.

"Were there any ashes in the convenience store?"

"I think it's a smoke free establishment, bein' that there's a gas station just outside of it, Mr. Mulder."

"That's my point precisely, Sheriff. Did you notice any ashes scattered anywhere at the crime scene?"

"Don't think so. Why?"

"Ashes can symbolize the utilization of the black arts, especially if they're distributed in the pattern of a pentagram. Sometimes various colored powders are also used."

"Come this way, please." Clampett ushered Mulder through another door and let him into an empty cell. Across the way was the gunman from the gas station robbery, who was cowering in a fetal position until Clampett locked Mulder in. He disappeared once more, pushed the TV cart into the corridor, and pressed play on the VCR. "I'll be back in 'bout an hour. Let me know what you think of what happened."

1:05 a.m.

The progression of high heels upon the cement block immediately awoke Mulder. His lady in shining splendor had come to save him at last; but how she would receive him at one o'clock in the morning after a full day of work and probably little food made him inwardly quiver with fear. Mulder glanced upward at his fellow prison mate across the hall and noticed that he was awake as well. "How's your...um...injury feeling?" he inquired of the man.

"Like I been delivered a free service from a vasectomy clinic," the prisoner replied with a wince. "Those footsteps for you?"

"Uh-huh. Though to tell you the truth, I've never been more scared in my life to hear them."

The footsteps stopped at the door, and as it squeaked open, a familiar red-head still clad in her business suit plowed through. Mulder's cell mate took one look at Scully and averted his eyes from hers as they swept through the jail. "I can see what you mean, mister. Looks like a real spitfire."

Her head snapped toward the robber with a poisonous stare. She folded her arms across her chest and took a few strides closer to his cell. "I think you be wantin' to visit the man behind you," the robber mumbled. He still refused to look in her direction.

"All in good time," Scully returned slowly.

"W...w...-what're you lookin' at me for? Ain't he your man?"

"I have a few questions for _you_, actually."

"G-woman or attorney?" He lifted his head slightly to make eye contact with the wall.

"None of your business."

"Then I ain't got shit to say."

"I was told that the bullets in your gun became pellets. Is that correct?" Scully pressed. He stubbornly held his silent ground while she turned to the TV cart that had been moved. She rewound the tape and gazed at the screen with keen interest as it played. Unfortunately, neither Mulder nor his cell mate could discern her facial expressions.

"Nice," she mumbled as she saw the robber's bullet ricochet from the gas tank. As he tried to fire again, he got hit in the crotch by Clampett's pellet. After hearing what she would describe as a 'girlish scream', Mulder swore he heard a snort. But he'd never accuse her of doing so in public...especially at this moment when he was in the line of fire.

Scully then turned the TV off after the camera lost its signal and slowly pivoted her attention for the first time to Mulder. "Thought for the day, Mulder. If at first you don't succeed, try again and receive a shot to the naughty bits for the second time indeed."

"Bitch," the cell mate huffed. "I've got half a mind to sue this goddamned town. You interested in making some real dough?"

"First you ignore me and then you insult me? I must say you have a real way of making friends and influencing people."

"I can't exactly make exceptions for my profession's reputation, lady," he shrugged. "I can't remember the last time I invited someone over for tea after smashing the register open, grabbing the cash, and shooting the manager on duty."

"A little manners never hurts anyone," Scully cocked an eyebrow.

Mulder was gradually starting to gain his confidence back. He knew that when Scully's razor sharp humor cut through the conversation, he was not nearly in as much turmoil with her as he previously thought. _Stay silent and let her deliver the clincher_, he thought.

"Fine, have it your way. Help me get these bastards..."

She leaned closer and crossed her arms. The cell mate growled a faint obscenity, but then cleared his throat. "Please," he finished meekly. She cruelly waited another ten seconds that seemed like half an hour to Mulder and kept her face in complete stone.

"It's really too bad for you because I'm _not_ an attorney," she smirked and retreated towards Mulder.

"Ah, Scully," Mulder marveled and sighed happily. "If you only knew what your acute mind does to the nether regions."

"Hold it, mister ex-g-man. You're not out of the fire, yet." She rotated her left wrist to examine her exorbitant watch. "Explain in thirty seconds or less why I shouldn't leave you here to spend the night."

"Well, I-" Scully held up an index finger.

"Not yet. Okay...now."

"There was an ice storm in the Winn Dixie, which I have still yet to investigate, and then there's that guy who died of the cold..."

"Twenty seconds."

"I had the doc take pictures of the body, but those won't turn out for another few days or so. And uh...then there's the incident which definitely proves there's a wizard in town..."

"Ten seconds...incident?"

"You know, the bullet and BB-gun trade-off. Then I thought that you might possibly be able to...use your feminine charms to...get me off the hook, so to speak."

"I already used practically every single one of the trade just to see you at one o'clock in the morning."

"Your federal credentials, then?" His lopsided beam greeted her as he bravely approached the bars and rubbed her fingers with his palm.

"That's what I tried to employ first, and _you're_ out of time." Scully jerked her hand away from his.

"Aw...Scully, what about the chair?"

"I'll tell you what I think of it in the morning," she spat after dangling the room key in front of his face and stormed out of the jail.

"The back seat of a T-bird's a helluva lot better," the robber yelled back.

"I would've figured you to be the type for the john in the bar. Screams STDs in bold and italicized print," Mulder bit his bottom lip and glanced at the man. "It's too bad you were so nasty to my partner who also happens to be a doctor. She might have been able to give you some cream for that terrible itch."

"It's more tolerable than listening to you yammer all night. Don't you ever shut up?"

Mulder grinned and continued his torture. "Have you ever heard about the legend of the Jersey Devil?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Hardee County Sheriff's Office, Wauchula, FL

June 2nd, 2001, 7:55 a.m.

"Mornin', Miss Agent Scully," Sheriff Clampett tipped his hat toward her as she approached his desk. "You're lookin' mighty fine for this time of the day, I must say."

_I must have overdone it more than I thought last night_, she mused.

"You're too kind, Sheriff. I...actually slept in my clothes last night," Scully answered and smoothed a well-manicured hand over her wrinkled skirt.

"Oh my. That would not have happened had you come over to my house..."

_I'll let that one drift off and drop into the chasm of cheap innuendoes._

"I was wondering if you might be good enough to give me directions to Dr. Van Winkle's practice. Deputy Gump left earlier this morning."

"Agent Scully, I'll do better than that. I'll drive you over there myself." He arose so fast that his chair squealed and tipped over. "Whoops," Clampett guffawed and retrieved it. He next hopped over the partisan and raced to the door just as she was about to open it. "_Ladies_ first."

"Thank you."

"So Mr. Mulder thinks we got a evil magician makin' all these strange things happen. What're you s'pposin'?" He again held the patrol car's passenger door open for her and shut it after she situated herself inside.

"I'd like to see the victim before I make any sort of hypothesis," she responded coldly.

"What more is there to say, darlin'? Opie Taylor coughed his brains out and died of a cold. You know they still ain't found a cure for the disease yet, so why couldn't it kill somebody?" Clampett tapped the accelerator and brought the engine to life.

"It's a virus, and I didn't say that Mr. Taylor didn't die from a cold."

"Then why're you gonna bother ole Doc Van Winkle?"

"Because the county coroner's not here, and an autopsy needs to be performed."

"Miss Agent Scully, far be it from me to question a federal authority...-"

_You've already done it three times._

_"_But why're you wastin' your time by disturbin' the dead? That's sacrilegious, isn't it?"

_Does he know the meaning of that word?_

"First of all, Mr. Taylor has not been buried nor consecrated. Secondly, he was ex-communicated from the Church three years ago according to your Father O'Leary. And thirdly, under the twenty-fourth article of the Florida law section g, all deaths must be thoroughly investigated through a licensed coroner or forensic pathologist until a cause can be ascertained."

_And this conversation is getting older than the mold growing on the leftover meatloaf in Mulder's refrigerator._

Although Scully had been trying desperately to fight the harsh edge in her tone, it inevitably came out and reared on its hind legs. Her harangue brought him to complete silence for the rest of the ride to Van Winkle's house. "Hey, um...how long's this autopsy gonna take you?" he finally asked her after pulling the car up to the front door.

"Several hours. I can't possibly give a definitive answer—why?"

"Well, mebbe you'd like to go to lunch, then...with me." His invitation reminded her of a typical Mulder trait. That particular habit was annoying at first...but later on, she found it kind of attractive in him. And as he got to know her, his assumptions became better and better. But she did not feel this pleasant aura from Sheriff Clampett at all. In fact, he was beginning to irritate her.

"I think I might have given you the wrong impression last night, Sheriff. I apologize if I came off as being promiscuous, and it was unprofessional of me to-"

"Be sexy? Naw, don't worry 'bout it. I like fast women from the city." He smiled lasciviously, put the car in park, and got out to open her door. She had to admit that his chivalry surpassed Mulder's, but that was the only thing that outdid anything else. This was also the second time in twenty-four hours for a man to make a pass at her. Scully vowed never to wear this particular business suit to work again.

"Good day to you, Sheriff," she tried a more firm and brusque intonation.

It wasn't until Dr. Van Winkle opened the door that she felt some sense of relief. "Oh, God is good, God is good," he rejoiced and slapped her on the shoulder.

The badge never whipped out faster.

"Ahem, good morning, Dr. Van Winkle, is it? I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, of the FBI. I understand that I'm to do an autopsy on a Mr. Opie Taylor."

"Oh," Van Winkle's beam drooped a bit. "I thought you were another breath of fresh air straight outta med school, too."

"What do ya mean, Doc?" Clampett questioned him.

"Well, just about half an hour ago, a young man from Gainesville arrived on my doorstep. And whaddya know, he's a med student from UF. I put the whipper snapper right to work. Didn't waste a minute!"

"Um...do you own a car, Dr. Van Winkle?" Scully inquired and turned her head towards the driveway.

"I do, but I haven't used it in four days. It's sittin' in my garage over yonder. Why'd you ask?"

She shoved her way past the mortician. "Where's the body?"

"Why, he's downstairs. What's the matter, you think he's gonna run away?" Van Winkle chuckled.

"Unfortunately, I've seen them disappear. Through this door?" She marched her way into his kitchen and grasped a brass knob.

"Yes. Hey, what's the...-" he broke into a coughing fit and nearly fell over. Fortunately, Clampett caught him just in time.

Scully rushed down the stairs just in time to witness a young man not more than twenty-five pick the sheet up off of Opie Taylor. His arm advanced upon a tray of surgical instruments. "Don't you touch that body!" she yelled and withdrew her gun. "I'm a federal officer!"

He instantaneously knocked the tray over in his haste to raise his hands, and the instruments spilled all over the ground noisily. "What're you doing with this body? Who are you? What authority do you have?"

His throat went dry and as he tried to speak, no words left his mouth.

She immediately realized that his frozen and submissive response was not characteristic of a pompous man in black; she lowered her gun and holstered it. "Let's try this again," she said in a serene voice and a much lower decibel level, "who are you?"

"K..K...Kyle Littlefield," he stammered. "P..p..pleased to meet your ac..acquaintance. C...c...can I put my h...h...hands down n...n...now?"

"Everythin' all right, Agent Scully?" Clampett stuck his head in and kept his hand trained on the butt of his gun. "You dang near mowed over the Doc. You wanna tell me what's goin' on?"

"Yes, you can put your hands down, Mr. Littlefield," Scully replied dismissively and spun around to face Clampett. "I've had bodies disappear on me before, and not in the way that you'd think, either. People have stolen them before."

"What the hell would somebody want with a corpse?"

"It's what they _don't_ want someone to find out about the body."

"Mmm...okay, sure. Well, since everythin' 'ppears to be in order, I'll be takin' off now back to the station. You got my cell phone number, right, Agent?" Clampett pointed to her with his index finger.

"Yes, thank you." Without another word, he departed and left the three of them alone. Scully's attention turned back to the med student, who now bent down to retrieve the surgical instruments from the floor. His square jaw, lengthy face, and platinum blonde hair immediately told her that he would've been "Mr. Hunk" in high school. He sensed her long gaze but kept his eyes focused upon his task.

"I was prepping the body for Dr. Van Winkle."

She said nothing but raised one eyebrow. He caught a glimpse of her action and arose with the tray. "That's what you were going to ask, wasn't it?"

"Maybe I was wondering how far along in your training you are," she remarked and crossed the room to switch on the operating lights.

"Second year."

"How'd you get here if you don't have a car?"

"I took a vehicle with six axles, fifty windows, and two sets of sliding doors here."

"Rather a long description for a train."

"Bus."

"Why'd you take a Greyhound all the way from Gainesville to Wauchula?"

"Maybe I like to travel."

"Well, there are also modes of transportation that contain four engines, over a hundred windows, two wings, and complimentary beverages." By now, Van Winkle had gimped down the stairs and regained some of his oxygen.

"I don't like to fly," Littlefield parried.

"You're being evasive."

"And you're being invasive."

"It's my job." Scully faced Van Winkle. "Dr. Van Winkle, I'm afraid I left my medical bag back at the bed and breakfast. Would you happen to have an extra apron, mask, and uh...set of goggles, perhaps?"

"I don't believe I've got any more goggles, ma'am, but you're welcome to the stuff by the sink." Not ten feet from the scrubbing faucet was a coat rack with an old fashioned linen apron dangling on by its last threads. The mask hung limply out of one of the front pockets, but at least they were clean. As Scully donned the equipment and washed her hands, Van Winkle limped his way over to the table.

"I kept 'im in the freezer purely 'cause of the habit. Kyle here took Opie out three hours ago and as you can see," Van Winkle poked the body with a crooked finger, "he's still frozen stiff."

"So, Mr. Littlefield, what's your specialty?"

"Oncology."

"Difficult field," Scully nodded and tied the mask around the lower half of her face.

"Just when you have to deliver the bad news," Littlefield pursed his lips.

"But seriously, why _are _you here?"

"The bus stops here, I met the doc at the gas station, and he said he needed some help. So I decided to get some experience in the field rather than waste my brain on an empty-headed vacation."

"Thought you came to his front door?" _Would that be the gas station that was just robbed and is still closed, by any chance?_ she wondered.

"I came through it, yes, but that's not how I met him," the med student shook his head.

"Well, then...Kyle, would you care to make the Y incision for me, please, and I'll go get the scales?"

"I'll go get them," Littlefield waived his hand and disappeared from sight.

She shrugged, picked up the scalpel, and literally had to carve her way into Opie Taylor's frosted chest. "Dr. Van Winkle, did this man have circulatory problems? Diabetes, perhaps?" she inquired.

"Opie? No. The only thing he suffered from 'sides the cold was bein' a workaholic. He owned the town library, the bank, a landscapin' bidness, and part of the CVS here. You're noticin' the bluish hue to his fingers, right?"

"Correct. What about Raynaud's disease?"

"I heard that usually just affects women."

"And it's not acute...it's a chronic condition," she agreed. "I'm just...trying to eliminate the...plausible medical conditions first," she mumbled the second statement. "However...his fingers are quite frostbitten...and this is Florida. What about cancer?"

"I'm not equipped to make a diagnosis like that, Dr. Scully."

"Did he make trips out of town? You said he owned the town bank."

"What's that got to do with getting cancer?"

"He could've gotten a second opinion." Van Winkle shook his head as he watched her peel back the flaps of her incision. "Well...we'll know for sure in a couple of hours when I get him completely open. So you tried to administer CPR?" He nodded and peered into the ribcage as she tried various times to crack it open. With an exasperated sigh, she set the rib shears down and looked at the instrument tray. "You don't happen to own a stryker saw, do you?"

"Nope, I don't. I might have, however..."

Littlefield entered the room with a grocery fruit scale and a jig saw in his other hand. "Thought you might need this. I found it in the garage," he proudly announced. "The blade looks a little rusty, though."

"I'm sure that at this point, there's no cause to worry about the risk of infection," Scully returned quietly and held her palm open towards him.

The student handed her the saw and plugged it in. As she harrowed her way through the ribcage, the stubborn bones finally gave and broke away from the organs. After she gave him the tool back, Scully observed Littlefield hunching back over the body. Nothing made her more nervous than having a younger assistant with nothing to do hovering over a corpse. "Mr. Littlefield, will you please set up the scale? I'll be needing it soon."

Scully's methodical eyes swept over the heart, stomach, and intestines. However, she took a second look at the lungs. She seized hold of a lamp above her and brought it down several feet. "What is it?" Van Winkle asked.

"Phlegm. Fibrosis." Scully probed the organs with her fingertips roughly. "Calcification."

"TB? I haven't seen a tuberculosis case since I first started practicin'..."

"It's possible in this rural area. Sometimes people drink milk that hasn't been pasteurized," she suggested.

"He wasn't showing _any _symptoms...except for coughing, that is. And he wasn't coughing up blood. When I listened to his heart, his breathing was just fine."

"He doesn't _need_ to be coughing only blood." When he gave her a puzzled expression, she stopped examining the lungs and made full eye contact with him. "Sputum could also be released."

"All right, suppose I send Kyle over to his house to fetch the unpasteurized milk, and he don't find it?" Van Winkle set one hand on his hip defiantly.

"Then I want a CD-4 or a viral load test performed upon him. If Kyle doesn't find the milk, then he'll find HIV, which is my second suspicion for Mr. Taylor's so-called cause of mysterious death."

"Opie wasn't no fairy, missie. I don't know what you're suggestin'..."

Scully nodded and flipped Taylor's left arm forcefully over. "Punctures and needle marks. He could've used a dirty needle."

"He ain't no junkie."

"The homeless and indigent aren't always the only people who have addictions, doctor." She soughed and handed a pair of scissors over to Littlefield. "Get some hair and blood. Where's the nearest lab from here?"

"Bradenton, I guess," Van Winkle replied and bit his lip. "He didn't look that sick before he got that cold."

"People with HIV don't 'look sick'."

"Well, what if he don't have it?"

"That's why I'm going to continue." Scully cleared her throat, reached for a pair of forceps, and discovered that she was foraging on an invisible tray. "Did you see...-"

"They're over yonder," he pointed with his cane to the other side of Taylor's body.

"Where's Littlefield?" Her face crumpled into a question mark.

"He must've gone to do them tests. That's funny, I didn't even tell him where my car keys were..." Van Winkle scratched behind his ear. "What a quick whipper snapper."

Hardee County Sheriff's Office, Wauchula, FL

June 2nd, 2001, 4:06 p.m.

Mulder grimaced after perusing Clampett's legal paperwork. How having an expired driver's license and parking in a handicapped spot could warrant so many words was beyond him. But the grand total in court costs near the end of the document made perfect sense; it meant that unless he started to use the funds from his parents' estate, he would begin to bounce checks very soon.

Last night's episode with Scully would not entitle him to borrow, either. This strange case was beginning to get even on his nerves. Hopefully, she'd come in with a diagnosis that'd explain everything, they'd catch a good old country meal, and later on he'd apologize in the best way he could--without words.

The outer door to the jail opened, and Deputy Gump strolled through. "How's it goin', Mr. Mulder?"

"Oh, well, your county's successfully drained me of my bank account as of today.""Gotta keep payin' our salaries somehow." Gump removed a pen from his breast pocket and gave it to him through the bars.

"At least the room didn't go to waste last night." Mulder uncapped the ballpoint. "Listen, could you do me a favor, Deputy?"

"Your car's _still_ in the crip space, by the way."

"Expecting a mountain of guests tonight?"

Gump shook his head.

"Then could you please go into my car and get my checkbook from my glove compartment?"

"Your woman can't get it?"

"Get what?" Scully's voice chimed through the entrance.

"My checkbook," Mulder muttered and hung his head.

"I already looked, Mulder, and you're in for some bad luck unless the deputy here starts to accept traveler's checks."

"You're kidding."

"'Fraid not." Her tone was not condescending; it was patronizing. And from the lack of words coming through her mouth, she was either angry with herself for something she did or the autopsy was inconclusive. "Deputy, could you please give us a few minutes?"

"As you wish. You didn't sign and date that paperwork, did you, Mr. Mulder?"

"Thankfully, no." He closed the packet and handed it back to Gump.

"All right, then. You got fifteen minutes, ma'am."

"I'm a federal officer," she nearly whined.

"Oh...well, is he a suspect?"

"No. But I figured that I could have a little bit longer..."

"Figure on twenty minutes, then." Gump gently pushed her inside and firmly closed the door behind her.

"Scully, when he comes back, don't leave. Stay for another ten minutes until the shift change," Mulder stated.

"And why would would I want to do that?"

"The good sheriff didn't impose a curfew on you last night, did he?"

"True, but you've got another idea up your sleeve. I can see that gleam in your eye--what is it?"

"Ever had sex in a jail cell before?"

"I'll come back when you're ready to discuss this situation like an adult instead of a seventeen year old with rampaging hormones," she grumbled and was about to knock on the door when he began to waive his arms around.

"No, no, wait, Scully, I'm sorry. Come back here." He got off of the bed and tapped the bars. She obeyed reluctantly but kept her distance from his cell. "You had a rough time today." Scully nodded dumbly. "The autopsy didn't tell you anything yet."

"Until the tests come back, no," Scully agreed and finally spoke.

"C'mere and turn around," Mulder gestured with his index finger. "I won't do anything to you that a six year old can't watch." She relented and again played the part of the daughter in duress. His fingertips began to make smooth lines across her shoulder blades. "Now go on."

"I don't think he died of a cold, Mulder. Opie Taylor had tuberculosis."

"This is the twenty-first century, Scully. Nobody dies of 'the consumption' anymore."

"Not if they get the proper antibodies, they don't. Besides, the TB was just a contributing factor."

"You're saying that he had more than one disease?" He dragged his fingers lower; the sweeping motion became slower on his second reverse stroke.

"I believe so, yes. But I probably won't know until tomorrow afternoon."

"What're you testing for?"

"HIV."

"Hmm...you're not buying into the wizard theory, either." His rhythm was beginning to lull her; she brushed away the blaring alarms clanging inside. She was due for a little recreation.

"Isn't that why you asked for me? You know how I approach the autopsy table, Mulder."

"I do, but I thought that you'd be more...open."

"I'm not shutting out the possibility entirely. I'm just...trying to decimate what I _do _know could've killed him."

"Okay, so try this on for size." He reached the small of her back and now made his way back up in the opposite direction. "How do you explain the BB gun incident?"

"Rubber bullets can also ricochet, Mulder."

"I checked his gun. They definitely didn't feel like rubber bullets."

"It's possible that he could've loaded some in accidentally. When you used to reload a clip, did you always take your time and examine each bullet?"

"No, but there's quite a difference between re-loading a revolver and an automatic. What do you have to say about the storm that occurred in the store?"

"Did anyone check to see if Holman Hart was in the area?"

"Nothing he ever did amounted to any catastrophic and nasty weather _inside_ an establishment. Besides, I think he's got himself quite under control nowadays."

Her eyes opened instantly. "Where'd that armed robber go?"

"They took him to the hospital; do you think they'll have him fixed for his bad behavior?" Scully ignored his comment and stepped away from his touch. "I've got an idea." She turned to face him. "When Sheriff Clampett gets back, tell him you need to test my blood for TB and after he lets you in here, leave that door to the outside world wide open."

She gave him a dirty look. "Even in the name of love, Mulder, my idea of romance does _not_ include a moldy twin bed with broken springs."

He stomped the ball of his foot down. "'Kay, then how about the cool cement floor?"

"You are _really_ determined to have your way, aren't you?"

"Admit that your desire is as equally as consumed as mine, and I won't say another word."

Scully licked her lips and knocked on the door twice.

"Where're you going?" Mulder demanded.

"To get _my_ checkbook."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Scully's Apartment, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

June 2nd, 2001, 5:15 p.m.

"After last year's horrible failure, I became inspired," a male voice told the Gunmen, who were all watching him with keen interest on a 19" computer monitor.

"Just exactly how much money is your new inspiration going to cost us?" Langly interrupted the speaker.

"Well, I did have to pay out some settlements, you know..."

"Uh-huh, go on," Frohike pressed. "I bet you hired some new programmers since Phoebe sucked you dry and split."

"Only two more guys, and I've learned my lesson. I don't care about being an equal opportunity employer for the moment. I need to make money--not see it get flushed down the toilet," Ivan explained.

"Is that what this is?" Byers held up an overinflated manila envelope and shook it gently. "I thought it was going to be another $49.95 beverage coaster."

"Man, what you hold in your hands is the future," Ivan pointed at him directly.

"Enough of the bullshit fluff. Just give us the grand total, Picasso," Frohike sniped.

"I prefer to think of myself as a Dali, but okay." He shrugged and retrieved a piece of paper from a glass coffee table nearby. "$2.2 million."

"You can't be serious," Langly choked on his coke. "Does this even account for advertising?"

"No." But before anyone else could get in another word, he continued with more confidence. "I'm waiting to hear Frohike's review before I even take it to the advertising firms in LA."

"You've played the game?" Byers asked his friend.

Frohike's reply was overpowered by a very loud wail. "Aw, crap," the older man groaned.

"Maybe it'll just go away if we don't make a sound," Langly suggested. All three Gunmen froze and kept quiet for about ten seconds.

"What's going on?" Ivan asked suspiciously. As if on cue, the infant's cries started up again. Byers and Langly both glared at Ivan, then at Frohike and stormed through Scully's hallway towards her bedroom.

"Nothing. They just left the TV on in the other room," Frohike responded calmly and shrugged.

"It takes two people to turn off a TV?"

"It won't turn off except by a remote, and Langly lost it. Now do you wanna hear what I've got to say, or are we going to waste more minutes on the battery?"

"Fine. Hit me," Ivan made a sweeping gesture towards his conversant.

"Did you get Agent Reyes' number?" Langly snapped at Byers.

"Yes, and I'm dialing it now." He fumbled with his cell phone.

"Shut that door. We don't want Ivan to find out about what we've been doing."

"You're getting a little pushy, Langly. What's up with you?" Byers shuffled towards the door and accidentally let it close a little too loudly.

"Nothing," he miffed and picked up a bottle from Scully's nightstand. He then tried to administer it to William, who shook his head and kept his lips sealed shut with an angry sob.

"Yeah, right. You've been sniping and griping at both me and Frohike for the past two days. The only explanation I have isn't physically possible for males."

"I've had to cancel my plans there times in the last seventy-two hours with Sabrina." Langly gave the child an exasperated sigh, leaned forward, and inhaled the area around Will. "Ix nay on the catastrophic nitrogen bomb. Did you get a hold of Reyes yet?"

"No answer. I'm getting her voicemail."

"Don't leave a message. It's better not to leave any evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Your backgrounds and lighting are really superb, Ivan," Frohike told him.

"Thanks. That'd be my new hire from Queens, NY."

"But your real time graphics kind of slouch behind everyone else...Square...Ubisoft...EA...they run laps round you."

"Well, once this becomes a best seller, I'll hire some more staff, and we'll improve upon it."

"That's just what I'm trying to tell you, man. You'll be no match for the competition in six months without the graphics." Frohike paused in thought and pivoted towards the hallway. "Is he hungry?" he yelled.

"How could a remote be hungry?" Ivan wondered.

"We've already tried that, and the waste basket is empty," Langly shouted back. "How 'bout the Internet, Byers?"

"The line's kind of tied up right now."

"Oh yeah." William shrieked again and began to toss and turn on his back.

"What about your girlfriend? She'd at least have a couple of ideas to some hypothetical questions?"

"No way, dude. She's off limits."

"But it's an _emergency_. We need female help _now_."

"It is, huh? You just gave me an idea." He snapped his fingers.

"What about my 3D composition and face modeling?" Ivan drew Frohike's attention back to the computer monitor.

"Could use a little work for when you've gotten the proper staffing. And the storyline, well...let's just say for now that Mortal Kombat does a better job."

"It's a first person shooter, man. Who cares about the freakin' storyline?"

"Need I remind you about Rareware's breakthrough last year? They tore everything to pieces."

"I guess so. So you didn't like it at all, did you?" Ivan remarked dejectedly.

"It doesn't matter what I like, Ivan. I won't be buying it." Frohike turned his head to glance down the hallway. "It matters what the public thinks of the game."

"What're you saying?"

"Build yourself a massive ad campaign, man. You're gonna need it."

"Aw, come on, Frohike..."

"You just can't compete with the rest of the manufacturers." He raised his voice. "Are you talking to her yet?"

Byers clamped his left hand over the cell phone. "Oh, I've gotten through, but not to Agent Reyes."

Langly barged his way through Scully's walk-in closet. "Hey, I found the toy chest."

"911 emergency, how can I help you?" a cool operator's voice came through Byers' phone.

"Yes, hello, I need to speak with a woman, please," Byers breathed.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I have an emergency with a baby. I need to speak with a woman."

"Are you kidding me? Male operators are_ just_ as qualified as our female-"

"NOW!" Byers yelled.

"Fine. I'll transfer you. Stay on the line," the operator growled.

"Why can't I find any pacifiers?" Langly moaned.

"Scully doesn't believe in using them," Frohike responded from the other room.

"Good evening, 911 emergency, my name is Marjorie. How may I help you, sir?"

"You've gotta help me with this kid," Byers said frantically.

"All right, but first you need to calm yourself down. Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Has the child ingested any sort of poison in the last five minutes?"

"No."

"Has the child suffered any allergenic reactions such as hives, puffy eyes, swelling, or rashes?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so? Are you the child's father?"

"Well, no...-"

"All right, then may I speak with the father?"

"That's kind of impossible right now."

"Oh, has he passed away?"

"Um...can we move on, please?"

"Sir, if I can extract any medical history from the family, it would be most useful to me. Is the mother present?"

"No."

"And why would that be? Who are you?"

"I'm just watching her kid while she's out," Byers stated.

A loud crashing noise came from Scully's walk-in closet, and Byers dashed towards it with the cordless phone still in hand. "Don't worry about me. That was just one of the kid's plastic play-thingies," Langly called.

"What happened? Was the child anywhere near that noise?" Marjorie demanded.

"He's fine. He's in his crib but he's still crying," Byers answered.

"What do you mean still crying? Were you calling because you couldn't stop the child's crying?"

"Uh, well...yeah. I'm kind of new at this..."

"I'm going to give you a _very_ short list," she groused, "and then I'm going to hang up if none of them have worked."

"Okay. Shoot."

"How about the weapon inventory?" Ivan questioned Frohike.

"It's fine. Look, man, I've gotta go. Something's come up."

"You mean that the remote didn't like his dinner?"

"Yeah, that's it," Frohike snorted. "Are you done yet?"

"It's up to you, man. The three of you've got a good amount of shares in FPS left. My advice to you is to do everything you can to promote me."

"Humph, well, the next time you decide to produce digital crap like this," Frohike retrieved the manila envelope and held it up, "make sure you've got our approval before submerging the company's capital into a project like this obsession of yours."

"Whatever," Ivan snapped and broke the line without a goodbye.

Frohike haplessly tossed the CD onto Scully's dinner table and made his way towards her bedroom.

"Then get yourself a good babysitter," Marjorie barked, hung up, and left Byers standing helplessly with his mouth wide open.

Frohike crossed the threshold and wrinkled his forehead. "Hey, how'd you shut the kid up?"

Byers scratched the back of his head. "I'm not exactly sure. But she told me to do all the things we already tried."

"I think William just needed to be burped," Langly said as both men turned towards him. The two cautiously crept closer to the crib to witness the infant once again peacefully slumbering on his back. "You see, I was just throwing out some random toys to see if I could find 'the one', y'know, that would shut him up? And I think this one hit the kid just in the right spot." Langly removed a stuffed lion from the cradle and held it up as he spoke. "It was kind of a cute burp, too, not like one of Frohike's after huevos rancheros."

Remnants of Walmart, Store #2112, Wauchula, FL

June 2nd, 2001, 7:37 p.m.

The scattered refuse of the once gargantuan super store encompassed half a city block. EMTs called in from nearby Polk and Manatee counties fluttered around the dozens of wounded, while the select few from Hardee county gathered the dead in yellow body bags. Clampett was beside himself; maybe this former federal agent could actually be right. He admitted that he didn't know much about the occult and witchcraft, being a sporadic churchgoer since childhood. But of all places, why would somebody choose Wauchula, the thickest Bible belt town in the southwest region of Florida to function?

These attacks _were_ becoming more vicious. Opie Taylor's death was still a mystery according to that drop-dead gorgeous federal agent, and his tests would not come back probably until the following week. As the emergency workers loaded the body bags into the second of Wauchula's ambulance fleet, Sheriff Clampett counted them. Six people were gone and more had yet to be added to the stack. If indeed the town was being victimized by a wizard, he'd better keep a lid on this story. Residents would most likely turn into a mob and instigate a witch hunt; he had a police force the size of a baseball team. Half of them were volunteers and over the age of fifty, with the exceptions of Deputy Gump and himself.

Clampett finally exited his patrol car and mopped some sweat away from his neck with a handkerchief. "Aw, hell," he groaned as he noticed _Wauchula Bulletin's_ "Johnny-on-the spot" reporter make a beeline straight for him. Leonard Homer lost no time and shoved a cassette recorder into Clampett's face.

"Sheriff, what happened here?"

"Lenny, don't you got a lick of sense in you? Look around and take your dangnabbit photographs. This place got hit by a mini-twister."

"Don't you have an explanation?"

"No." Clampett's hands went to his hips. "That's why we pay Roger Pyle at Channel Eight. Why dontcha go and bother him?"

"He won't return my phone calls," Homer lamented.

"So go pay him a visit and get your nosy, skinny white ass outta my face and off of my crime scene."

"Crime scene? Sheriff, would you care to further comment upon that assumption?"

"No, I wouldn't," Clampett huffed and made his way toward an employee receiving minor bandages for a head wound. Unfortunately, Homer chose to follow him. "It was just a slip of the tongue."

"Oh, I don't know 'bout that, Sheriff. I think you are holding out on me."

"Well, that's the first intelligent thought to come outta your mouth since you miraculously graduated from high school. Hit the road, Jack." He jerked his thumb backward towards the setting sun and approached the Wal-Mart employee.

"The people have a right to know what's goin' on in their own town, Jed."

"I said beat it. Take your damn photos and interview whoever you'd like that'll talk willingly to you, but leave me the hell alone to do my job."

"Whatever you say, Sheriff. I'll be back to talk to you later," Homer smiled slyly and slithered away.

Clampett glanced at his watch and withdrew a pocket notebook from his pants pocket. The EMT finished his butterfly bandages around the man's head and walked away without a word to his next patient. "How're you feelin', Barney?" Clampett inquired.

"Dizzy, I guess. And a little confused. But thank God, nothin' else is wrong with me," the senior citizen told him. "Have they figured out what killed Opie yet?"

"They're workin' on it. Sorry, Barney, I know he was your grandson..."

"I suppose you're wantin' to know what happened, right?"

"In a minute, Barney." Clampett folded the notebook back and turned in the opposite direction.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm uh...I'm a waitin' on some help that's a little late..." He cleared his throat and uncapped a pen with his teeth.

"How long is this going to take? My shift ended half an hour ago, and, uh, if you don't mind, I'd like to go home now."

"If you could just wait a bit longer, Barney, I'm sorry...-" Clampett retrieved his handkerchief again from his other pocket and wiped his forehead this time. Much to his relief as he finished, Mulder and Scully arrived at the scene in her rental. He noticed that she'd lost the business suit sometime in the last couple of hours since he'd seen her and traded it in for a pair of light khaki slacks, black leather heeled boots, and a very chique olive green v-neck long-sleeved t-shirt. That ex-g-man did not know how good he had it.

"Now that the g-patrol is here, we can start. This is Ms Scully, and Mr. Mulder," Clampett began. Scully removed a badge from her trousers' pocket and let Taylor scrutinize the identification.

"Good evening, sir," she said curtly, put the badge back, and glanced around at the debris. "Those EMTs look swamped. I'm gonna see if I can give them a hand for a while." Scully touched Mulder's forearm and donned a pair of hidden latex gloves as she trudged towards the wounded.

"Those things appear faster than a magician's sleight of hand," Mulder shook his head and murmured.

"Mr. Mulder, I almost hate to say this, but I think..." Clampett hesitated and slapped a bug that had unfortunately landed upon his arm, "...I'm startin' to think that you're right 'bout this."

"My hope is that since this is a very fresh tragedy that we can culminate some evidence to solidify my theory," Mulder nodded and slid his hand into a pocket to bring out a bag of sunflower seeds.

"And what's that?" Barney inquired.

"Well, I'm guessing that you've got a wizard or possibly... a warlock in town. I'm not sure which, but maybe we'll find out more as we comb this place," the ex-FBI agent replied, which made Clampett wince.

"But Barney, this is just a guess," he interrupted Mulder's further explanation, "so please don't go tellin' anyone else. We don't wanna start a panic."

"I won't say a word." Taylor glanced at his torso, realized he was still wearing his Wal-Mart 'how may I help you?' vest, and removed it. "But does that mean I can go now?"

"Um...I just have a few questions, sir." Mulder held up a sunflower seed and offered the older man some of the bag.

"I haven't had one of these in a while, thank you." He smiled, nodded, and reached into the plastic. "Go ahead."

"Can you tell me if you saw anyone behaving unusually before this unfortunate inclement weather occurred?"

"Well, sir, I work for Wal-Mart. What _is_ unusual behavior to the average consumer might totally change when he or she steps into this store."

"Okay, I'll be more specific, sorry. Did you happen to see anyone spreading powder or perhaps ashes around an explicit area? He might have also been lifting his hands towards the heavens and mumbling with his eyes closed."

"Uh...nothing of that sort, I'm 'fraid," Taylor disagreed and delved his hand back into the bag for some more.

"Which area do you work?"

"Oh, uh...in the gardening section."

"Perfect." Mulder tossed a husk onto the ground and bit down on the seed. "He might buy some exotic herbs from time to time...night shades, henbane, thorn apples, mandrakes...some species of the orchid families make excellent sleeping potions. Do you know of a repeat customer that buys or asks for those kinds of plants in earnest demand?"

"I've never even heard of half of those things, sir," Taylor responded with a quizzical expression.

"All right, then, thank you, Mr. Taylor, I'm finished." Mulder pocketed the bag of seeds and wiped his hands onto his pants. "Sheriff, is the store manager still here?"

"He might be...unless...shucks," Clampett turned his head to the left to witness the zipper of a body bag cover another head, "...yep...that's him."

"Hmm...how about the assistant store manager?"

"He was one of the first ones to be rushed to the hospital. I don't think he'll be talkin' to anyone soon...the paramedic said he was plum in a coma. You want me to search the scene? Look for any of them ashes?"

"I'll help you, though I'm sure finding anything in this rubble won't be easy," Mulder agreed. "The smell of sulfur is quite common in conjunction with mystical or magical pulverulences."

"What's that smell like?" Clampett pivoted on his heel and began to sniff the air while he kept his eyes glued to the ground.

"Typically like rotten eggs," Mulder offered and took off to search in the opposite direction.

"So are these folks just like normal people?" Clampett raised his voice.

"Um...well, no. They're um...could you be a little less obscure?"

"Sorry, Mr. Mulder. Um...do they look like us? Do they wear normal clothing or do they stick to those robes?"

"If you're referring to the stereotypical holocaust cloaks used in the Hollywood depictions, I'm afraid that that isn't quite an accurate portrait of modern day wizardry."

"Sir, I'd appreciate it please if you could please stop using that word in public," Clampett sighed and took his next inhalation deeply through his nose.

"Of course, sorry...I realize you don't want to spread concern," Mulder nodded and crouched down on his haunches to overturn a pile of singed clothing. "Shall I use the term necromancer instead?"

"That's fine, if it means the same thing."

"Yes, it does. Anyhow, the necromancers of today are human and blend in fairly well with our western culture. Don't forget, they've had to blend in for centuries thanks to intolerance and ignorance of many people."

"Well, this person _should_ be burned at the stake for doin' what he's done so far. Mebbe it coulda been a woman, too."

"I don't discount that, either. However, men are more prone to commit savage crimes than women. And the spells are becoming more vehement. How many people passed away during the Winn Dixie episode?"

"One, if you count a major heart attack," Clampett grunted. "Agent Scully could probably tell ya how many are gone now." He placed a hand on the small of his back and cracked his spine as he stood up straight. "I think this job is takin' us way too long. I've got some bloodhounds locked up back at the station. Wanna use 'em?"

"Sure. Where can we find some rotten eggs?"

"Come on back with me. I betcha we got some in the Frigidaire getting ready to go bad. Do you like dogs, Mr. Mulder?"

"I've always been partial to beagles myself, but bloodhounds are better."

"You'd better believe it. We'll take my car," he motioned to Mulder and stepped over the trash he'd been separating.

"Let me make a call to Scully."

"We'll only be gone for 'bout an half an hour," Clampett bit his upper lip.

"Trust me. If I don't do this, I will undeniably regret it later on," Mulder insisted and retrieved his phone as he followed the sheriff back to the squad car.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

10:21 p.m.

"Thanks very much for your help, ma'am," an EMT shook Scully's hand as she made her way over to the rental's passenger side.

"You're welcome. Are you driving back all the way to Sarasota tonight?"

"And stay in this dump, are you kidding me?" He left before she could make a reply.

Mulder's eyes darted over to the car and noticed Scully opening the passenger door. _Hmm...she only does that when she's too tired to drive._ "If you'll excuse me, please, Sheriff Clampett, I think I'll call it a night."

Clampett agreed, said goodye briefly, and Mulder patted the two bloodhounds gently on the head before departing from their presence. He ventured back to Scully's rental and opened the driver's door. "Hey there. You look beat," he whispered.

"I'm dead. Mulder, I just want a meal, a shower, and to be unconscious for the next seven or eight hours," she commented, relinquished the keys to him, and limply banged her head against the headrest.

"I think I can arrange for that." He set himself down in the seat and brought the engine to life. "Did you find out anything new from any of the injured but conscious?"

"Not much other than the two phrases, namely, 'it hurts' or 'ow'. And how 'bout your end? Did the dogs find anything?"

"They found where the unopened treats and dry food were underneath all the rubble. But no traces of magical or sulfuric ash," Mulder shook his head and shifted gears smoothly into drive. "I _know_ they understood what sulfur smelled like. We locked them in a broom closet with three dozen bad eggs for half an hour."

"And you still are making the supposition that the good townspeople of Wauchula are being tormented by the likes of an augurer? Do you even think that it could possibly be...I don't know...a Merlin of some sorts?"

"Scully, Merlin was just a legend. And besides, he's long gone even if he did exist." Mulder lifted a hand off of the wheel to make his point as he made a turn.

"If I weren't so tired, I'd probably have an orgasm from that last retort."

He stopped at the next intersection and gave her a perplexed but lopsided smirk.

"I meant that as a joke, Mulder," she returned his gaze.

"Which part?"

"Oh, I'll let you give it a long, hard think for a while," she responded with a yawn and leaned back into her seat.

He reached over and laid a hand on top of the both of hers, which had settled quite low in her lap. "While we were out, I also gave a call to the local weatherman Roger Pyle to check out the history of the land. He had one hundred ten years of records, Scully. And the only other twister of any sort was reported last year...in February, as a matter of fact."

"Mmhmm..."

His hand started to mingle with the two of hers.

"But the tornado was on the off-skirts of town and only really did damage to one or two orange tree groves. I wonder why he's so pissed off."

"Who?"

"The wizard. Did one too many Jehovah's Witnesses or Southern Baptists flock to his doorstep? Or has he been flipped off one too many times on the road? Maybe there was one soda pop batch from Wal-Mart that went bad and exploded...onto his new carpet or something."

"Maybe he got jailed from having an expired driver's license or a parking ticket," she murmured and lifted her head to glance at her hands in her lap. His hand was no longer there; it had moved into some other dangerous territory.

"If you were a witch, Scully, what would set you off to make you go bonkers?" Mulder asked her sincerely.

"A limb with five digits roving into a no-man's zone," she cleared her throat. When he failed to comprehend her message, she tapped his hand softly. "And the digits are about to be removed one less if they don't move."

"Are you telling me that they have no business being there?"

"At this particular moment, you're absolutely correct." He still refused to move his hand, so she forcefully shoved it away,

"So even though you're exhausted, you want to devoid yourself of any pleasures whatsoever." Mulder peripherally glanced at her dismayed face and frowned.

"I'd prefer to be more alert while they're occurring, yes." Her expression illuminated, and the corners of her mouth lifted upward. "And I think we should make a second rule."

"A second rule? What was the first?" Mulder eased the car into the MTM parking lot next to his Mustang convertible.

"The part where I'm officially on a case, and we don't spend the evening together."

"Oh, that one," he mumbled dismally and shut the car off. "Well, then what's the second rule?"

"No horseplay in the car."

"Scully, I was going way and above the call of horseplay. I was just about to head for second base into-"

"Mulder." Her eyebrow lifted to the dark heavens; he knew he had just lost that argument, so he tossed her the car keys and nodded sullenly.

"I see that good ole Deputy Gump kept the restaurant open for us. Shall we?" He gestured an open palm towards a tiny diner, and when she shuffled over to his side of the car, his hand came back to rest against the small of her back once more.

As they strolled inside, Gump entered from the kitchen and threw a towel over his shoulder. "Good thing you came in, FBI folks. I was just gonna close if you didn't show up in the next five minutes," he told them.

"Well, we're very grateful that you kept it open, Deputy, thank you," Scully gave him a gracious but weary beam. Both of them sat down at the counter on anchored scarlet bar stools.

"I had to turn the oven off to clean it, but you're welcome to anything I've got in the display case. I'll just heat whatever you want up in the microwave. Holler at me when you've decided what y'all want." Gump turned his back and walked back through the swinging door to the kitchen.

"I wonder how old that grilled cheese sandwich is," Mulder eyed the sandwich through the glass and scratched his stubbled cheek. "A bowl of tomato soup with that would just hit the spot for me."

Scully picked up one of the menus and began to scan it over silently.

"What's going on in that dazzling mind of yours, Scully?" When she did not answer immediately, he arose from his stool and dragged his fingernails down her back.

"Mulder!" she yelped and tried to swat his hand away, but he cleverly evaded it.

"Succumb to your earthly desires, woman, or I'll continue my torture..." His voice darkened, but he somehow managed to keep a playful lilt in the tone. Again, his nails sunk down another portion of her spine, giving her chills, and he surely felt them because he chuckled in response.

"Can you just behave yourself for five minutes?!" Scully squirmed and slapped the menu down onto the counter.

"I'll have you melting like that delicious looking cheese in less than two," Mulder breathed and closed his hand around her hip holster. That was enough. Her hand covered his before he could remove it. Unfortunately, Gump reappeared from the kitchen, and Mulder bolted about five feet from her.

"Have y'all made up your minds?" he inquired and wiped his hands with a fresh dish towel.

"Yes, I think so," Scully calmly replied and lifted one leg over the other. "I'll have some of that chicken noodle soup with some crackers, and Mulder would like the grilled cheese sandwich. Do you happen to have a can of tomato soup open?"

"Did you move that car from the crip space yet?" Gump's arms went to his hips and one eyebrow furrowed towards Mulder.

"I was just going to do that," Mulder nodded and held up an index finger.

"No, I don't. But it's no trouble to open one and heat it up." The deputy disappeared from sight once again with the food in hand, and Scully swiveled around to size up her partner.

"I know, I know, I'm going." He made a dismissive signal with one hand and trudged out the diner door.

After Mulder came back, he found Scully studying her pocket notebook and leaning one elbow on the counter. However, one significant thing had changed whilst he was moving his convertible; her gun had indeed vacated from her hip onto another stool on her left. She also gummed on a pencil but more importantly did not have her back turned to him. He breathed an inner sigh of relief and joined her.

"When will those results on that TB guy get back?" he nonchalantly asked.

"Funny you should ask, since I just spoke with one of the lab technicians on the phone." She flipped a page over and twirled the pencil in between her perfectly manicured fingertips. "And he informed me," Scully switched her crossed legs, "that he never received any visit from the young man I described nor any of the cultures I asked him to take." She lightly slammed the notebook onto the formica slab.

"You're kidding."

"I only wish I were. Now I'm right back where I started," she soughed and slid the pencil behind one ear.

"Well, you're not _exactly_ back where you first started," Mulder soothed. He grasped her right hand with both of his and touched her fingers to his lips. "These surroundings aren't as shady as a jail cell."

"No, but we're still in public," she cautioned him.

"And you're not officially here, so who gives a damn?" Without another moment to lose, he dropped her hand, seized her by the back of the jaw, and moulded his lips to hers with a reckless passion. Although caught off balance, some logic within her somewhere reminded her of the sharp instrument lodged behind her ear, and she flung it away while she responded to him. All other nagging thoughts and surroundings seemed to blur into the distance for now as the small fire grew into a blazing inferno.

Neither had any inclination or idea that Deputy Gump arrived back with their food, even when he set it down in front of them. It actually wasn't until he spoke that they remembered where they were. "Maybe I shoulda brought in a plate of spaghetti and meatballs for the lady and the tramp," he chortled.

If Mulder had been able, he probably would have jumped up and gotten his head caught in the ceiling. Fortunately, he only fell off of the stool. "Mulder, are you all right?" Scully called as her jaw fell with concern.

"Yeah. My ass broke my fall," he remarked and recovered himself from the floor.

"Listen, I gotta get to sleep soon. My shift starts at 5:30, so just leave your dishes in the sink for me in the kitchen and shut the lights off on your way out." Gump pointed to a panel of light switches near the swinging door. "Don't worry 'bout the bill. Consider it paid for your services rendered so far." He left but not without a large grin pasted across his face.

Scully's face now nearly matched the coloring of her hair.

"I can only guess that we won't be finishing what we started later on," Mulder pulled at his upper lip nervously and reached for his spoon.

She smoothed a piece of stray hair behind her ear and tore open one of the cracker packages. As Scully quietly lifted a spoonful of chicken noodle soup up to her mouth, he banged a fist onto the counter. "Damnit, Scully, it can't be all _that_ bad. We're not working officially together, and I'm no longer in the Bureau. What the hell's the problem?!"

Her spoon tumbled back into the bowl and splashed an enormous amount of soup onto her lap.

"I...I'm sorry, Scully," his voice calmed down about ten decibels as he helped her clean up the spill. "But can I ever do anything right for you?"

"Yes," she drawled with a sibilant emphasis, "your timing was fine. His however...could have waited...another two minutes."

He flashed her a brilliant smile and exhaled aloud. "Glad I could finally catch you at the right time."

She tried again with her soup and succeeded this time in consuming it. "Me, too."

"So how far could I have gone if he hadn't interfered?" Mulder took a large bite out of his grilled cheese.

"Depends on what you can do in two minutes or less," Scully said and dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin.

"Hmm...care to find out in another location in a small amount of time?"

"I'm still tired, Mulder, but...-"

"Remember that we've got a chair," he pressed.

"I do, but I don't feel like using it tonight," she complained.

"Okay, I get the message. But you gotta tell me something first."

"Anything." _Just let me eat in peace, for Pete's sake._

He scooped up some more soup into his mouth. "What the hell is the color of our cabin?"

"Red, Mulder." She motioned to her hair and laughed through her nose.

Steak n'Shake #1040, Wauchula, FL

June 2nd, 2001, 11:53 p.m.

The jangling noise of bells declared the presence of Sheriff Jed Clampett as he strolled through the doors to the nearly dead restaurant. "Evenin', Sheriff. Will Deputy Gump be joinin' you tonight, or are you by yourself?" a waitress no younger than forty asked him with a tray riding on her hip.

"Just myself. I'll eat at the counter, Clarie. Don't trouble yourself." He peered around the restaurant as she gave him a resilient smile and went behind the divider. His keen moments of observation were stalled when she called out his name once again and gently pushed a menu towards the empty seats at the bar.

"Jed?"

"Just a steak burger, small order of onion rings, and a banana split milkshake. That'll be all, thanks," he ordered with a disregarding waive. Clampett was too occupied with his surveillance upon a blonde, muscular young man in his twenties, who had eyes that were as clear as the Caribbean sea. He was entertaining two female servers at the moment, and a third, Clarie, joined the party seconds later.

The man was overly dressed, Clampett thought, for this time of the year. He wore a white suit and a blue dress shirt; a few very expensive rings surrounded his fingers as he tapped the table in front of him rhythmically every few moments. Unfortunately, since Clampett never took any musical training himself, he had no idea what the beat pattern was, but whatever rhythm his fingers worked, thereafter, his foot always accompanied it.

A pile of empty used plates crowded the table as well as about thirteen leftover milkshake glasses. This man, whoever he was, had the waistline and build of an athlete but an appetite thereof a tiger. _ Some things in life just are not fair,_ Clampett told himself and shook his head. _I have to workout to keep myself in shape. He probably was just born with that body. What the hell? Did his eyes just change colors?_

Clampett leaned forward and casually popped the kinks out of his neck. His suspicion was confirmed. No longer were the young man's eyes blue; they were now as hazel as Mulder's. He appeared to be ordering some more food now, and Clampett pushed himself away from his stool to calmly approach the booth. "Mind if I join ya?" Clampett inquired. "I don't believe I've met you before."

The hazel eyes now transmogrified back to their former azure state as the man looked upward and made a very slight nod. It almost seemed as if...he were gazing at Clampett like he was a subject...a servant...in some way. The waitresses suddenly skirted away, giggling amongst themselves, as Clampett sank into the cushion across from his curious host. "So...are you here on bidness or just visitin' a relative?" Clampett continued his interview.

"You could possibly determine that I am present to remain here for a short while," the blonde responded with a rich baritone timbre.

Clampett was unsure if that was actually a question or an answer, so he paused to consider his next inquiry first. Instead, he made an observation and denoted his head towards the dishes on the table. "Guess your bill'll be a little higher n' mine. Is there anything you ain't had on the menu yet?"

"You wear a star upon your clothing." He tilted his head to the left. "Do you represent a coven of priests?"

"Um...no, sir. This is, uh..." Clampett tried not to laugh, "...this is a badge. I'm the Sheriff of this town. The name's Clampett. Jed Clampett."

"I do not understand, Clampett Jed Clampett Sheriff of This Town. Why do you possess such a long name while the others that work in this establishment do not? The female slaves call themselves Clarie, Julia, and Thelma. Is your stature above theirs?"

"Slaves? What in the h...just what do you get off by calling those girls slaves?"

"They do bring you food and nourishment, do they not?"

"Yeah, but they get paid for it. They ain't _slaves_. Where are you from? Don't you got any restaurants where you're from?" Clampett questioned him indignantly.

"Paid in what? More food? Surely that is a satisfactory restitution. You require food, clothing, and shelter to survive. It is provided within this facility, therefore, it is adequate."

"They don't live here, son. What planet do you live on?" The attendants brought them both their orders, and Clampett dug into his back pocket for his wallet. He removed a credit card and placed it onto Clarie's tray without even looking at the bill.

"No, no, this ain't right," she shook her head and gave the card back.

"What's the matter? I just used that card here last week, and it don't expire until 2002! Now you're tellin' me that it's void?"

"No. You're in the company of Lord Farnor. There ain't no need to gimme money in his presence," Clarie beamed widely.

"Aw, naw, I can't do that, much as I appreciate it." Clampett pushed the card into her hands, and she dropped it onto the floor. "What's the matter with you, Clarie?"

Clarie fluttered away before he could say another word, and he bent over to pick up the plastic. "Now, mister, your check's big 'nuff, I can't possibly..."

"Clampett Jed Clampett Sheriff of This Town, I grow weary of your rude demeanor. I have heard that it is a common practice amongst your peoples to accept hospitality once it is delivered unconditionally," the man's voice became tense.

"Oh." Reality hit Clampett like a punch in the face. "Do you own this place? Is that why you're here? You're testin' everythin' before the customers do? I get it."

"What is your position in this village?"

"I just told you. I'm the Sheriff. And you don't need to use all that mumbo jumbo when you talk to me. Just Jed'll do."

"Explain the meaning of sheriff, Just Jed'll Do."

Clampett's forehead creased. "You gotta be kidding me." He waited for a few moments for the blonde man to break out into laughter or some other sign of jocularity, however, he did no such thing. "My name's Jed. Not Clampett Jed Clampett Sheriff of This Town or Just Jed'll Do--Jed. That's all--Jed. Now the sheriff is the police chief of this city...this entire county, too."

"I am unfamiliar with your semantics in reference to the word police, but I am familiar with the term chief. You are the leader amongst these people, then?" He lifted his hand and swept it across in the air.

"Well, I'm kinda _one_ of 'em. We do have a mayor that runs this town, along with a council that advises him. Did I catch it right when I heard Clarie call you Lord Farnor?"

"That is my name," Farnor agreed and placed a forkful of potato salad into his mouth.

"I've never seen anybody so hungry in all my life. Ain't you full yet?"

"I eat but once every three months, Chief Jed. My metabolism and digestion process requires me to partake in as much nourishment as possible so that I may survive throughout those increments," Farnor explained.

"Hmmph...ain't that interestin'..." Clampett mused. "Snakes do that, too. You don't look like you're any part reptile..."

"My genetics do not match nor correlate to that species, no."

"So what're you lord over? I mean, the feudal system kinda ended...almost four hundred years ago. You don't have an English accent, so you couldn't be from the UK or Australia."

"I am the son of Loki, ruler of all that is evil."

"Uh-huh," Clampett studied him cautiously. "Then how come I didn't hear nothin' 'bout some Loki bein' elected supreme ruler?"

"Because you are an inferior race to the gods; your minds are finite, and you cannot comprehend our planes of thought. We are not accountable to mortals." Farnor chomped down on his triple steak burger stacked with cheese and mushrooms.

"Mister, I think you need to be checked into the nearest mental institution. Are you on some kind of medication?" Clampett slid part of a large fried onion ring into his mouth.

"There. That is proof enough of my previous statement to you. You cannot fathom my words; therefore you make a false and vague assumption to make yourself feel exemplary. I assure you, Chief Jed, you humans are _not_ the prime race of this earth."

"I'm sorry--didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Farnor-"

"_Lord _Farnor. You may address me as Lord Farnor, Chief Jed," the god interrupted him brusquely.

"Yes, well...so after you finish your big feast, what do you do for the next three months?"

"By 'do' I assess that you are asking me how I spend my time."

"Uh, yeah, that'd be it."

"After I complete my meal here, I intend to travel to the southernmost end of the Earth and stay there for a completion of an earthly forty-eight hours. Then I will return to the village of Wauchula to claim my belongings and leave."

"Clarie, I could use some coffee here," Clampett called in a loud voice. "Would you care for some, too, Mr. Farnor?"

"I have already warned you to address me as _Lord_, Chief Jed. Do not tempt my anger, or you shall suffer the consequences."

"Yeah, you'd better bring a cup for the Lord, here, too," Clampett yelled. "So why're you packin' up to go?"

"Because the world will end in approximately three of your days' time."

"Just three?" Clarie returned with two mugs of coffee and left a bowl of half n'half containers on the table in between them. "How are you so certain 'bout this?"

"The date has been made known to me. It is at this time that my father will be set free from his torment."

"And just where is he?"

"In Helheim; a place that contains very dark and icy plains of suffering. As one progresses to each inner level, the pain and torture increases one hundredfold. I will allow him to be in anguish no longer. Should I fail my mission to bring him back, the motion of events will not stop. Ragnarok has been set into action; no human can prevent it from happening." Farnor began to tap his fingers and his foot once more.

"So the end of the world's comin' soon...kin I ask you why?"

"I would not ask such things but rather wonder instead how many human lives can be saved," Farnor sneered. "You do realize that a mountain range of snow alone will fall upon this village?"

"In Florida? Lord Farnor, or whoever you think you are, I can help you find a good psychiatrist if you'll come back to my office with me. This man gave me the best drugs in the world to fight off my bouts of depression."

"I can see already that it is futile to discuss these matters with a mortal of your intellect any longer. Perhaps you have someone with a greater ingenuity among you." Farnor picked up his napkin and mopped his mouth clean of any traces of food.

"All right, all right. So...you say the earth's gonna end in three days...what the hell are you doin' here?"

"The accuracy of my throw upon the model of your world in Gladsheim was a bit misguided. I originally had intended to hit the metropolis of Orlando."

"You're quite a few miles away from your mark, Lord Farnor," Clampett chuckled and sipped some of his coffee. "I never heard of a place called Gladsheim. Where's that? And what do you mean by hitting a model to get someplace? Haven't you ever heard of an aeroplane?"

"I have heard of some of your methods of transportation, yes. They are quite primitive to our means of travel." Farnor rolled up his sleeve and upon his left arm was a lengthy collection of watches. He gazed upon an Omega Sea Master.

"What the hell are all those for? Oh wait a second, you've gotta know what time it is in China to pick up your stir fry."

"Although your surmise is crude, it is not far from complete inaccuracy. These time elements represent different worlds or perhaps you might call them dimensions. This one," he pointed to the Sea Master, "symbolizes what is left of your earth's time. This one," he signaled Clampett's attention to a silver Rolex, "marks the hours of my world in Asgard and so on."

"You've got quite an imagination, Lord Farnor, I must say."

For the first time, Farnor grinned and dug into a jacket pocket to bring out a glass flask of red liquid sealed with a rubber stopper. He stood and placed it upon the table.

"Okay, you've got me. That looks a little too thick to be cranberry juice," Clampett scratched the back of his head.

"The matter in this container can possibly save every single human being on this planet...or perhaps it affects just the area it is opened," he mumbled the latter part of the sentence. "I am leaving it in your hands because it is time for me to make my journey soon. But I caution you not to open this bottle prematurely; wait until seventy-one hours have passed. All humans shall be transported to the world of the Asgard at that moment. The potion in here will not work should the earth's atmosphere mix with the _varinya_."

"Are you pullin' my leg here or what?"

Farnor again smiled fiendishly and patted Clampett on the shoulder as he made his way towards the door. "Hey, Lord Farnor, you forgot to pay your bill," Clampett shouted. The god gave him one last glance as his eyes morphed into black pools. "Oh, right, I forgot. You uh...should I refrigerate this stuff?"

"It is advisable," Farnor replied and was gone in a puff of smoke. However, Clampett blamed his vision due to his exhaustion. "Clarie, can I ask you to put this stuff in your Frigidaire 'till I get back?"

The middle aged woman came back and picked up the flask. "What is it?"

"I'm...not quite sure actually. So, please don't touch or open it 'till I get back. Just let it be." Clampett got up and threw a twenty dollar bill on the table. "I don't care what that nut said. And let me know what his check is; the county'll pay it after I get him into a madhouse."

"He was very charming," Clarie said and glanced at the dirty dishes.

"Suave or not, he don't belong in the general public. Might try to hurt himself or a helluva bunch of others. I gotta give somebody a call."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

MTM Bed & Breakfast Resort, Wauchula, FL

June 3rd, 2001, 1:49 a.m.

The only invention Scully ever cursed man for creating was the phone. The car, the wheel, the airplane, and the pyramids; those were some _really_ superb inventions. But Mary, mother of God...the black death was almost more tolerable than receiving a phone call in the dead of the night. The harsh tintinnabulation of the cabin telephone woke her, which caused her to emit a deep groan. Mulder did not stir from his bed. For once in his sleep-deprived life, he was out cold.

_Maybe it's just a wrong number and it'll stop ringing_, she told herself and rolled over, sweeping a pillow over her head.

Cruelly, as if on cue, the phone trilled again, and her weak hand shot out from underneath the pillow to search blindly for the receiver. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she grumbled in a scratchy voice just as she located the phone and picked it up. "Scully."

"Agent Scully? This is Sheriff Jed Clampett. I must apologize deeply for the lateness of the hour...but I gotta axe you some questions. Life or death might be hangin' in the balance."

"In that case, you're forgiven." She sat up against the headboard of her bed.

"I was just eatin' in the Steak n' Shake 'bout two hours ago when I ran into this crazy nut who claimed he was a god or a lord or a son of a gun, or...I can't be too sure...-"

"I sense a but coming."

"Yeah, you're right. He gave me some kind of an elixir and says I'm not to touch it for another," Clampett paused, "seventy hours until the end of the world comes. Then I'm supposed to open it up and save everybody."

"I see. What did you do with this liquid?"

"I had Clarie put it in the ice box with a do not disturb sign on it. I made her promise nobody was gonna lay a finger on the stuff."

"When you picked it up, did the fluid bubble or become volatile?" Scully yawned and rubbed one of her cheeks.

"No. It reminded me of a melted red slurpee. You know what those look like, right?"

"I'm all too familiar," she sighed and momentarily looked at her partner, who was just stirring. He once left a slurpee on her glass coffee table two years ago when the Gunmen were present, and one of them knocked it off accidentally. The stain was to this date _still_ on her carpet. No cleaner had yet been able to remove the substance.

"You said no one has touched it?" Scully questioned him.

"That's right. I wanna know what this stuff is right away."

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until later this morning. The lab where I tried to send my autopsy results is in Bradenton, and it closed at ten thirty last night. They probably won't open until ten."

"Tried? Whaddya mean?"

"It's a long story, Sheriff, but the gist of it is that they never received any materials to test. So I still cannot make a COD on Mr. Taylor."

Mulder turned over and faced her. His hair was even more disheveled than hers, but to her, for some odd reason, it kind of made him cute. His morning expressions were generally reminiscent of 'Bambi being caught in the headlights', unless they had just made love. That in itself was a totally different circumstance, in fact, one that made her blush at this moment.

"What's happening, Scully?" he wondered.

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and mouthed the word 'sheriff' to him as Clampett droned on in his Southern dialect. "Well, he could be a terrorist, Sheriff, but you did the right thing by keeping the flux away from everyone."

"Isn't there somebody you could get to analyze this stuff? I mean, couldn't it be a bomb?"

Mulder kicked the sheets away, got up, and sidled himself next to her by her legs."Ask Clampett if the man left a name," he told her and pulled the covers away from her.

"Mulder wants to know if...oh here," Scully started, then grunted and handed the phone to him. He winked at her and signaled for her to move over with his head. She did so begrudgingly and took the pillows out from beneath him as he claimed her previous side of the bed.

"Hello, Sheriff. No, Agent Scully's fine, she's just a bit tired. So, did the man tell you his name?"

"Yeah, he said that he was a Lord Farnor. Sounds like he needs to go to the loony bin, if ya ask me," Clampett went on.

"Mmhmm. Go on, please." Mulder ran two of his left fingers absently across her cheek and chin. Her eyebrows took a dive in frustration, and she rolled over on her side away from him.

"That boy says that the end of the world's comin', and that he ain't from this planet. Nor will he be here when it comes."

"Farnor, Farnor, now where have I heard that name before? Hmm..."

"Said he's the son of Loki...whoever the hell that is."

"Ah...yes." Mulder's wandering fingers found the hem of her violet pajama top and slid underneath to trace her tattoo. "I remember now."

"Mulder..." Scully's voice warned him. But he seemed not to care or hear her, because his trail grew lighter than a feather.

"Farnor is born to the Norwegian god Lokiand his wife, Sigyn. Now while his other three kids were born of Loki's mistress, Angrboda, Farnor is actually his rightful offspring," Mulder began. "Now I'm guessing that you probably don't know who Loki is, Sheriff, so I'll explain a few key elements he played in Norwegian mythology."

He hesitated briefly after Scully managed to locate his offending hand behind her and smack it away. "Loki is the impersonation of trickery, lies, and chaos in Norwegian legend. He kind of started off as sort of a good guy, but he got a bad rep once he tricked Hodur, the god of winter into killing off Balder, the god of light. The other gods banished him from the Asgard from that point on. When Ragnarok, the end of the world, comes, he will play the ultimate bad guy against the other gods. He can shape shift into anything he wants--even inanimate objects." _Eureeka!_ "Hey, Scully," he shook her shoulder. She gave him a grunt in reply. "I think I know who's behind all these spells."

"What?" Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah, it's got to be Farnor. Loki is also attributed to fire and magic. Who says that those can't be traits passed down in the genes?" Mulder inquired.

"So you think he did it all?" Clampett pressed.

"I do, but I'm sorry that all I have is a hunch right now and no proof to offer you."

"Well, technically that's my job to find out and not yours anymore, as I understand it. But now I'm almost ready to think that you're as fruity as that cupcake I met an hour ago. What the hell kind of a theory is that?"

"One that's been conjured up at two o'clock in the morning when people are supposed to be sleeping," Scully moaned and ran her hands through her hair.

"Anyways, I've called one of my volunteer citizens to help keep watch on this weirdo..."

"I recommend that if you have any contact with him, the thing to do is to humor him. Even though you may think that Loki does not exist, in Farnor's mind, he does, as well as probably the rest of Norwegian folklore," Mulder stated quietly. His digits skimmed up her back again but this time stayed outside on the silk and made concentric circles. "Be diplomatic. Treat him as if he were a god or an ambassador to another country. Ignoring his fantasies or delusions of grandeur will likely result in tragedy or perilous situations."

"But he's just a man."

"That may be, but we _have_ seen his use of the black arts, Sheriff. You've heard the saying 'don't rock the boat', right?"

Scully whimpered as his fingers continued their dance, and the strokes started to be random. He'd press down heavily occasionally but then when she'd least expected it, his touch was as buoyant as the gossamer silk of a spider web. "Please, Mulder," she breathed.

"Yeah, I heard that song. It died along with the rest of the damn disco movement," Clampett growled.

"Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to help your volunteer with his surveillance. Two pairs of eyes are always better than one," Mulder continued on languidly, though he was very pleased with his fidgeting prey.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Mulder, I do, but I don't wanna take you away from any more sleep than I already done. Please forgive the intrusion," Clampett patronized him.

"Think nothing of it. I'm already up; I've gotten a few hours. Agent Scully will probably need her rest, so only I'll be making the rendezvous." He abandoned her back and slid his thumb around the outline of her earlobe.

"For the love of God and everything holy in the church, Mulder...-" she pleaded.

"Just give me the address of where your man's tracked down Farnor, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay. Do you carry a personal weapon with you? I know you ain't no Fed no more, but-"

"Yes, I do, actually. I still have a few enemies that would love to put a bullet through my back."

"All right, then. I'll meet you there to give you a radio, too, and then I'm gonna try to see if I can get a hold of somebody that'll help me find out what that liquid is."

"Sheriff Clampett, don't lose heart. Scully will come, I promise you. She just needs a few more hours of sleep," Mulder's tone was placating. He now slipped four fingers through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck with his thumb.

"Hmmph, if you say so. Got a pen and paper?"

"Don't need one."

"We think Farnor lives in this place, but you never know, so here it is. 5110 Robert E. Lee Blvd. It's only five minutes from the bed n' breakfast," Clampett informed him.

"Let me put on some proper clothing, and I'll be there in ten." Scully was now fully awake; she shifted around on the bed so that she was facing him. And she was giving him her patented 'glacial death stare'. "Make that fifteen minutes," Mulder corrected himself with a wary eye upon her and hung up.

"Good to know that I still have an effect on _you_ with this. Agent Reyes completely disregarded it on Friday," Scully murmured.

"I used to be a lot more petrified of the Scully glare a couple of years ago, actually. I've just been playing you since we got involved," he shrugged and switched on a bedside light on his side of the nightstand. He then bent down, gave her a minute kiss on the tip of her nose, and tried to leave until she fiercely shook her head.

"Oh, no, you don't. You're not going anywhere until you finish what you so ruthlessly started five minutes ago." Scully jerked him downward to her lips. He broke away panting ten seconds later.

"But Scully, my love, I must. Sheriff Clampett can't spare anyone in his force but a civilian volunteer to monitor this Lord Farnor guy."

"Wasn't this supposed to be your vacation, Mulder?" This time, she was a bit more gentle with her capture, but she was just as demanding as before. His resistance began to subside when her fingers crawled through his hair and own neck. And he felt his flesh down south rise in response to her body. The point of no return was rapidly approaching; he knew there'd be no way back if it were disturbed by either her hand or if she moved directly against him again.

"Mmm...but the end of the world will be in less than seventy hours, Scully. I've got to," he whispered, and this time sprang out of the bed so she couldn't reach him.

"Are you crazy?! You've been casually tossing innuendos, tally-ho's, and lewd nuances at me all day, and now that I throw myself at you, you go run after some crackpot magician that's lost his marbles?" she shouted and sat up.

"Just get some more rest, and then you can help me." Mulder shuffled over to his duffle bag and took out a pair of blue jeans.

"In case you've forgotten, I am here without extra pay, on my own expenses and _not_ the Bureau's...and you're ditching me again?!"

A red flag went up in his mind as he slid off his flannel pajama bottoms and put on the trousers. But at that second, he paid it no mind and passed his eyes round the room to search for his Walther. "Scully, I have every intention to completing my excursion into your every desire, but let's just delay it for a little bit longer. I don't mean to be ditching you," he apologized. _Oh yeah, I left the gun under the driver's seat in the 'Stang. _"Don't you want a few more hours of sleep?"

"I don't know if I'll be able to get them now," she rolled her eyes.

"Sure you will. I've seen you fall asleep on the most uncomfortable furniture and awkward positions." Mulder poked his head through a gray t-shirt and tossed his pajamas onto his bed.

"Well, remember that this is a Sunday, and that we're out of town. Luckily, I already did my laundry on Thursday because I had a sneaking suspicion that you'd try to get me down here somehow, but tomorrow, I have to be back to the office."

"So what? Kersh is on vacation, right?" He shrugged and sat on her bed while he shoved his feet into his Nikes. "You can afford a personal day. I'm willing to bet that you've hoarded them over the years...five or six, perhaps? You said that Capricci guy seemed okay while he's filling in."

"Mulder, he practically tried to seduce me over a game of pool."

He turned and gave her a befuddled look. "Since when were you the type to go wandering into pool halls or bars?"

"Kersh has one hidden underneath his conference table. The leaves pop out."

"Oh. Well, that figures. I knew that man always had something to hide." Mulder scooted over to where she sat and took her by the hand. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

"So that doesn't bother you about Capricci...?" She raised an eyebrow as he kissed the back of her palm.

"I suppose it should, but I figure you can handle yourself. You are one stunning woman, Scully, but you are still a gorgeous FBI woman. I still carry the scar and proof if you need it." Mulder pointed to his left shoulder with a grin. But he could tell by her present body language that she was in no mood for jokes. "Okay. You wanna talk some more; we'll do it when I get back and after you've had two cups of coffee in the morning."

"I just want to know where I stand with you," she sighed and slid under the sheets once more. "How much was that bet?"

"Hmm...bet?" He arose and collected his car keys from the dresser.

"The one regarding my mongering personal days? What're you planning on wagering?"

"What'd you have in mind?"

"I already know what I want; I'm asking _you_."

"Could a time be set up for a little use with the chair and maybe _Caddyshack_?"

"I knew it," she groaned. "But if you're wrong, no movie, yes on the chair, and there will be a bath in it for you tonight, mister."

"Scully...-" he whined. Her jaw was set and lips pursed. The law had been laid down, and now the moment of truth came. "I'm gonna say six."

"Is that your favorite number?"

"Don't keep me waiting, woman. A dangerous god is out on the lam." He started to tap his foot impatiently, but he was actually pretty nervous about his previous answer.

"I was just asking."

His face transmogrified to panic. "Can I change my answer?"

She shook her head no. "Nope. Your guess is carved into stone."

"Scully!"

"Eight, and that's what time the activities will start tonight, unless the end of the world _does_ come."

"No, we have until 12:15 a.m. Wednesday." He was gone without another word.

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
